


Heart of a Dog

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Series: Scumbag AU [1]
Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: AU where Maria never got pregnant, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crime AU, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Slow Burn, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Organized Crime, Porn With Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, and Frank became a criminal instead of a soldier, physically they start fucking in ch3, porn with excessive amounts of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-06-01 09:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 119,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15140081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: When former mob hitman Billy Russo meets career criminal Frank Castle for the first time, the attraction is immediate and impossible to ignore. That doesn't mean things go easy for them.(AU where there's no dead family, no betrayal, no Cerberus or Rawlins. AU where Frank meets Billy on different terms and how things play out from there. Complete!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is, the novel i wrote like four months ago. if you've been following me or [lelelego](http://lelelego.tumblr.com) on [tumblr](http://nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com), you've seen posts about the 'scumbag au', which is a frank/billy au mostly inspired by Jon Bernthal's character in Baby Driver. basically, what if there was no dead family, no major ptsd, no betrayal? what if things didn't work out with maria? what if frank is unattached the first time he meets billy?
> 
> big ups to my wonderful friend and homeboy Jun/ssealdog ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealdog/pseuds/sealdog)/[Tumblr](http://ssealdog.tumblr.com)) for the beta and for being one of the people who helped develop/yell with me about the scumbag au.

Frank had thought he’d gotten used to seeing pretty faces. He lived in a trendy neighbourhood and worked at a gym. He saw more pretty faces before breakfast than most people might’ve seen all year. He was used to the women, to their glamour, their styled hair, their made-up faces, painted lips and lashes. Clothing colourful and light, skirts rustling like the wings of tropical birds. Used to how good they smelled when they let him get close enough. Like vanilla bean, orange peel, and exotic flowers.

Even in this, his other, less-legitimate job. Take the lady who called herself ‘Kitty’. She was so pretty that she belonged in a different world, in someone else’s story. She had model good looks, a face for the big screen. She looked like the kind of gal who should’ve been driving her step-kids to lacross practice in the brand new Mercedes SUV her latest husband had bought for her. She should’ve been on her way to an all-you-can drink brunch instead of sitting beside her hung-over sister. If things worked out the way they should’ve then someone who looked like Kitty wouldn’t have been seated at the same table as Frank.

Frank didn’t have a pretty face. Frank had a face for the job he was in. In another life he might’ve been good looking, handsome even. But the choices he’d made had left dings and dents on what would’ve been a fine model. He belonged here, in this abandoned building where the walls had been stripped clean and voices bounced off the bare concrete, a hopeless sound from a deep and lonely cave.

The new guy, on the other hand…

He caught Frank’s eye the second he walked through the door. He was like Kitty. Too polished, too good looking to be in a place like this, with his feet up on the scratched table, at ease, like he was waiting for his name to get called at the spa. With his slick hairstyle, his trimmed beard, his designer jeans and moto jacket, he fit about as well into his grey surroundings as a panther in a cat cafe.

It wasn’t just the pretty face (although it was _very_ pretty) that had caught Frank’s eye. It was everything, the full package. The way pretty boy ignored his surroundings like he was above it all and didn’t care who noticed.

Frank dragged a chair across the floor, its metal legs screeching across the concrete, and dropped it with a clang onto all fours. Frank sat down onto the front-row seat he’d made for himself to better view the pretty face and long legs. He crossed his arms over his chest and settled back, taking in the show.

Pretty boy didn’t even twitch at the racket Frank was making. Kitty’s drunk sister raised her head and flicked a scowl at Frank.

“Can you keep that shit down?” she said.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Frank replied without turning his head. Pretty boy didn’t look up from his phone. Frank might as well’ve been a mosquito buzzing around the room for all the attention he was getting. “Had a few dozen too many last night?”

 “Maybe. I need to get real loaded before I fuck your dad,” she said.

“Funny, he said the same thing. Who’s the new guy?” Frank asked.

“We don’t know. He was here when we got here and he hasn’t said anything,” Kitty said, cutting her sister off before she could escalate.

“He’s already my favourite man in the room,” the sister said.

The corner of that sweet-looking mouth twitched. He wasn’t deaf, then.

Frank leaned forward, deliberately pushing into the stranger’s personal space, and examined him like he was a piece of art in the galleries Frank never visited.

A nice mouth. Wide and expressive. Plump lower lip, pink and soft-looking, like he took care of it with chapstick. Begging to be touched. Strong chin, straight nose, sharp cheeks. He had classic good looks, the kind people used to write sonnets about, or paint. A beauty meant to inspire. Frank wasn’t the artistic type, but that pretty face did kick-start certain aspects of Frank’s imagination. Frank rubbed his chin and hummed appreciatively.

Pretty boy’s nose twitched but otherwise nothing changed in his face. He tapped his screen.

Long fingers, too. Delicate looking. Artistic. Frank thought about sucking one into his mouth.

“Why’s he being so quiet?” Frank asked.

Kitty shrugged.

“Maybe he’s got manners and sense,” her sister said.

“Maybe he thinks he’s better than us,” Frank said.

“He’s definitely better than some of us,” the sister said.

“Maybe he’s just got nothin’ to say to you,” pretty boy said without looking up from his phone.

Damn. He had a nice voice too. Frank sat back.

“So. Not a mute after all. Hey, new guy.” He kicked the leg of pretty boy’s chair. “What’s your name?”

Pretty boy sniffed. He dragged his thumb across his screen and tapped something else.

Frank pushed his tongue against the back of his teeth, pulled his top lip back a little to show off the edge of an incisor.

Kitty, always with a read of the room, pushed her chair back. “They call me Kitty,” she said as she circled the table. “This is my sister, Alias.”

For the first time, pretty boy raised his gaze from his screen. “Your alias is ‘Alias’?”

“I’m bad at names,” Alias said.

“She’s being modest,” Frank said. “She’s bad at everything.” He caught the rude gesture Alias threw at him in response from the corner of his eye.

Kitty hopped up onto the corner of the table, taking up a spot beside pretty boy’s combat boots. She smoothed down her skirt and gave him a sweet smile.

Frank never got tired of watching her work guys over. Her honey-coloured hair falling over her shoulder, her ice chip eyes crinkling at the edges with a smile that showed off her expensive white teeth. She was like a siren from the stories, ready to lure men from their ships to the sharp teeth of the sea. Frank remembered all too fondly how she’d lured him to his one-night little death.

Pretty boy just tipped his head to the side, considering her without a change in his expression. At least she’d gotten him to look at her.

“I think he thinks he’s better than us,” Frank said. He drew his fingers down his throat, his gaze tracing the curve of pretty boy’s long neck.

Pretty boy finally turned his head to face Frank. He gave him a bright smile, showed off the line of his chiclet-straight front teeth. Frank could feel his own pulse fluttering under the pad of his fingers. He dropped his eyes to the exposed path of skin under pretty boy’s chin and thought about what it might feel like to bite that spot.

God, he loved a long neck. Frank would go for the neck first. Mark it up real nice. Pretty boy probably tasted like shaving lotion and cologne. Frank could almost feel the burn of stubble against his lips.

Maybe pretty boy saw him looking. His smile shrank a little but his dark eyes gleamed. For a moment, Frank wondered if his impure thoughts were hanging on his expression.

 “So, what do they call you, mystery man?” Alias’ drawl cut through the moment, just as Frank had begun to edge forward.

“Yeah, give us a name,” Frank said, recovering smoothly. He threw one arm around the back of his chair, leaned back to stretch his shirt over his chest.

It was a good chest. Frank had put a lot of work into it. He felt the investment pay off when pretty boy’s gaze dropped to his pecs. He pressed the pink tip of his tongue between his lips, there and gone but not before Frank had seen it.

Frank grinned. Pretty boy looked away with a sweep of his girl-thick lashes, expression empty once more.

“Beaut,” he said. Kitty tilted her head in a silent enquiry, her brows furrowed. “They call me ‘Beaut’.”

Frank clapped his hands once, laughing. “What a coincidence! Of course they do.” He tipped his chair back onto two legs. “I think I like ‘Beauty’ better, though.”

“Wait—really?” Kitty’s disbelieving grin spread over her face as Beauty shot Frank an ugly look. She glanced at Frank, eyes gleaming with their shared joke.

“What’s it matter to you?” Beauty asked coldly.

Kitty shook her head. “It’s just funny, is all. A hell of a coincidence.” She slipped off the table and made her way back to her seat.

Beauty’s lips pulled back. “You keep sayin’ that. Coincidence how?”

“Beaut,” Kitty said, ruffling her hand through Frank’s hair affectionately as she passed. “Meet your ‘Beast’.”

* * *

Everyone in this business used an alias, mostly for their own safety. Micro insisted on it in his own operations. Something as innocuous as a first name spoken carelessly in front of the wrong person could lead to trouble down the line. Suppose someone got nabbed by the cops after a job? Suppose after two hours in the interrogation room under those bright lights, he mentions that he heard people calling you ‘Frank’. That could lead Detective Dickhead to run down the list of Known Franks in the database who’ve been pulled in for prior robberies and, well.

So, anyway. They called Frank ‘Beast’.

“Why’s that?” Beauty asked. He looked and sounded like he was thinking about sleep, but his arms were crossed tight over his chest and his feet were twitching on the table.

Frank shrugged. The high line of Beauty’s moto jacket got in the way of his neck. Frank thought about pulling it open and slipping his hand inside, stripping Beauty of his layers until Frank’s view was unimpeded.  He could wrap one big hand around Beauty’s long neck, easily. Feel that sweet throat knock against his palm with every word, every swallow.

“We were on a job, couple years back,” Kitty said. She’d reclaimed her seat beside Alias, who had her nose in her phone and an open thermos steaming at her elbow. “Should’ve been a quick smash and grab, but there was a rat on the inside and we wound up walking into a trap set up by the Deshauer family. Outnumbered, like, six? Maybe seven to one?” She wound her long hair through her hands as she spoke, pulling it off her shoulders and neck. “Out-gunned, too. I figured we were goners but this guy—“ She jerked her chin in Frank’s direction as she flicked a hair band from her slim wrist. “—shot the first one dead before they could even say ‘gotcha’. Surprised them. He took the dead man’s shotgun and just…” She smiled at the memory. “Well. It was over quick. Never saw anything like it before.”

Kitty had taken him to a hotel that night. Their first but not their last together. He broke his one-sided staring contest long enough to toss her a grin.

“After that, we had to call him ‘Beast’,” Kitty said.

“He’s also got no class and acts like he lives under a porch,” Alias said without lifting her head. “It’s a really fitting name.”

Beauty’s lips twitched, the closest thing to an expression he’d made since Frank had sat down. Frank flexed his jaw and shot Alias a look from the sides of his eyes.

“Got us all out of there alive,” Kitty said. She’d knotted her hair at the back of her head, thrown up in the kind of messy bun Frank only ever saw on models in magazines.

“What’d they call you before that?” Beauty asked.

“Stupid, mostly,” Alias said.

Frank’s gaze had returned to Beauty’s neck—he liked watching it while Beauty talked—but he jerked to attention at the question.

“Oh, all kinds of things,” Frank said, ignoring Alias. “‘Mad Man’, ‘Berserker’, ‘Skull’, ‘Trig’—“

“‘Trig’?” Beauty’s brows drew together.

“Short for ‘Trigger’,” Frank said.

“That’s a lot of stupid names,” Beauty said, his interest drifting back to his phone.

“Micro and I used to travel a lot before we settled here. Different cities, different names.”

“Why didn’t you just pick a name and keep usin’ it? Something you could introduce yourself by,” Beauty said, tapping his screen.

Frank stared at Beauty’s fingers and imagined what they would feel like gripping his shoulders, raking down his back. “Dunno. I didn’t mind the names so much. How ‘bout you?” He drew his tongue across his lower lip and gave Beauty his own killer smile.

“What about me?” Beauty was either looking at something too interesting to turn away from or he was just pretending. Frank watched his eyes.

“Just wonderin’ where you’ve been all my life,” Frank said.

Beauty blinked. He looked up at last and Frank met his gaze head on, pulled his smile wider.

“Like, were you a model or somethin’?” Frank continued, like his personal dictionary didn’t include the definition of ‘shame’. “With those legs, I could see you on the runway. Or maybe you tried your hand at acting. There are definitely a few flicks I’d’ve loved to have seen you in.” He licked his lips and gave Beauty a once-over, taking his time raking his gaze over the long line of his legs.

“Or maybe you found a more lucrative business elsewhere.” Frank dragged his gaze back up to the well-named Beauty’s face.

Which had gone cold. “You wanna watch your tone when you talk to me like that,” Beauty suggested. His lashes hung low over his black eyes, shuttering out all light. It looked like an expression he might’ve practiced a few times before. Frank very nearly shivered.

“You might have to make me,” he said, lowering his voice.

The muscle at Beauty’s mandible flickered and the hang of his shoulders grew taut. He looked at Frank like he was considering it. The thought of this skinny, pretty boy looking to start something interesting with Frank made his chest pound, his head flood with heat. He wanted to see that magazine-ready face turn red. Wanted to see what those artist hands of his might do when Beauty’s mind turned to violence.

“Just ignore him,” Kitty said. She leaned her chin on one hand, looking like a lady ready to enjoy the show. “He’s all bark and no bite.”

“Oh, I bite,” Frank said. “But you gotta ask nicely first.”

Another jaw flex, like he was aching to show off his teeth. “I wouldn’t ask you for a glass of water if I was on fire.”

He had an accent, too. So thickly New York that it made Frank hungry for the $17 hot dogs they sold at Yankee Stadium. The kind of accent people adopted when they were making fun of New Yorkers. It was cute.

Frank’s smile didn’t budge in the face of Beauty’s scorn, which just seemed to piss Beauty off further. He looked ready to leap out of his chair and maybe start something interesting but before he could, the door cried out on its ancient hinges, announcing the arrival of their boss.

Beauty settled back with a long, heaving breath, disinterest dropping like a shutter over his expression. Frank gave him a wink he ignored and turned back to the front of the room, just as the boss dropped his beat-up leather case onto the table.

* * *

Everybody knew Micro was The Guy, the one with fingers in every pie and a bug in every important office in the city, but few people knew how to get a hold of him.

Frank was one. He was one of the first. Certainly, he was the only one who knew Micro’s real name was David.

David knew Frank before Frank was the Beast or Trig or any of the other dumb, tough guy names they liked to stick on him. Back when he was just Frank, the newly orphaned 19-year-old, too old for the system but too young and stupid for the real world. Back then, Frank acted as muscle for any outfit with the cash to pay him. Frank had thought the best he could hope for, in terms of fame and fortune, were opportunities to pummel another tough, young idiot to soft meat in the centre of a poorly-drawn octagon while a crowd of lowlifes with money in their hands cheered.

David was the first person who thought Frank might’ve been meant for grander things. The first person to offer him something better than the chance to get his teeth knocked out. A partnership.

It always made Frank smile, the look on people’s faces when they met Micro for the first time. With his Einstein hair, his ratty Mr. Rogers cardigans, his faded dad jeans, he didn’t fit most people’s mental image of a criminal mastermind. Anyone would be forgiven for thinking the guy starting a war with the largest crime syndicate in the city wasn’t the same guy standing in front of them with a permanent marker in one hand and a half unwrapped tuna sandwich in the other. David always looked like a substitute teacher who’d been called in at the last minute.

Frank didn’t pay attention to the lecture. He already knew what the plan was.

Instead, he watched Beauty like he’d paid for the pleasure and thought about the things he’d like to do to him. The kind of sounds he’d make while Frank had him pinned against the wall. God, Frank really hoped he was vocal. He stared at Beauty’s legs and imagined what they would feel like wrapped around his waist. Or his knees tucked up under his armpits, squeezing his ribs.

Beauty, for his part, didn’t give Frank a second look. He stared at David, wearing a little crease between his brow, looking confused the way all newcomers were confused by the distance between David’s reputation and his appearance. At one point during the debrief, Beauty brought his thumb up to his lips and began to chew gently on his nail.

Frank stared at that digit long past what anyone would consider decent or acceptable. If there was any doubt as to what was on Frank’s mind before, there wouldn’t be anymore. Judging by Alias’ eye roll and Kitty’s smirk, there probably hadn’t been in the first place.

Frank pulled his mind as far from the gutter as he could when David began to wind down.

“Okay, so we’re good? We know what we’re doing?” David asked, his eyes on his smart watch.

“I’m feeling pretty confident I know my part,” Alias said as she twisted the lid from her thermos. “But, uh. I think Beastie over there spent the last ten minutes thinking about doing something else.”

Frank huffed a laugh. “You really want to do this?” he asked.

“What?” she returned, half-smiling as she poured a measure of what was almost certainly Irish coffee into her little mug. “Prove that instead of paying attention to our boss, you were thinking about rawing the new guy over the table?”

“This is a real charmin’ outfit you got here, Micro,” Beauty said.

“Thanks,” David said as he frowned at Alias. “Don’t worry about him, okay? Have I ever sent any of you in when I thought you weren’t prepared? Just go out there and get ready. Kitty, the car’s parked in the fourth basement. Blue 2007 Camry.” He tossed her the keys.

“This state’s got open container laws, so you might want to finish that drink before you get in the car,” Frank said as they all stood.

“I might just do that,” Alias said, slinging the heavy duffel over her shoulder like it was filled with stuffed animals.

“Sorry,” Frank said, lingering behind as Beauty grabbed his gear. “She was out of line.”

“What, you think she hurt my delicate sensibilities?” Beauty flung a sharp smile over his shoulder. “That’s sweet but I’ve been hearin’ worse since the schoolyard.”

“I’m just sayin’, I’d wear a condom,” Frank said.

Beauty turned away but not before Frank caught him rolling his eyes. He slung his duffle over his shoulder, inches from knocking into Frank’s nose, and walked out without another word. Frank happily watched him leave.

“Frank,” David said once the room was theirs. “Maybe save the pigtail pulling for after you finish my job.”

“Hey, can you blame me? Guy’s got legs for days,” Frank said. “Where’d you find him, anyway?”

“The usual way,” David said as he wiped down the board. “He was vouched for by people I trust.”

“How come I haven’t heard of him before?” Frank wondered.

“He was in New York for a long time,” David said. “Left the city about two years ago. He’s been bouncing around the west coast ever since. Did some good work in Portland last summer.” David pushed his hair back, an always-futile gesture. His hair did what it pleased. “You might want to keep an eye on him, Frank .”

“That’s no hardship.” But Frank frowned. “You trust this guy?”

“I trust the people who vouched for him,” David said, adjusting the shoulder strap on his bag. “And I trust you to be smart if anything goes wrong. Nice ass or no.”

“Legs, too,” Frank said. He grabbed his bag with one hand. “But I get your meaning. Business before pleasure.”

“And Frank?” David called out. “Don’t run him off, okay? If the rumours are to be believed, he’s an asset worth keeping around.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Frank gave a lazy salute on his way to the elevator. “I tell you, I won’t mind keeping that asset of his around one bit!”

* * *

Beauty _was_ good, as it turned out. No amateurish show of nerves, no tremor in his hands as he handled his shotgun. He didn’t flinch when Frank kicked the door open and shouted for everyone to get down on the ground. He sauntered towards the counter like he had a Sunday afternoon deposit to make.

The job went smoothly. The few people who still bothered to do their banking in person were nervous, as anyone with a gun pointed in their face would be, but no one did anything stupid. Alias prowled between them and did her part to keep everyone calm and docile. Beauty took care of the tellers, gave them their orders.

It was interesting, watching him work. Frank usually acted as the mouthpiece but he wasn’t well-suited to the job. With his thick arms and chest and his bruised face, people usually found him intimidating. Even when he tried to keep his voice level, the poor saps behind the counter would flinch and step back from him.

Beauty spoke to them in a smooth, low voice, like a sex line operator they’d called on a lonely night. They were still nervous, of course, but they kept their hands were Frank could see them, took them into the back to meet with the manager, and fetched the money and lockboxes from the safe without incident.

“Th-that’s all we’ve got on site,” the manager said, her teeth clattering over her words. Fear and adrenaline shook her body like a box full of coins. Her lackeys stuffed their empty duffle bags.

“Good thing you’re insured,” Beauty said with a smile that crinkled his eyes above his mask. To Frank’s amazement, the manager’s lips twitched with a small smile of her own.

One of the attendant’s hands slipped as she shoved a wad of cash into the bag, sending bills slithering off the side of the counter. Beauty was on her before Frank could move.

“Hey, take it easy,” he said, shotgun in hand but not yet raised. “No one’s gonna get hurt here today. You just gotta keep your head straight.”

Jesus, that accent in that purring voice. Frank would’ve done anything he was asked to if Beauty was doing the asking. He could listen all day and not get bored. He wondered if Beauty could sing. And then he thought about making him moan.

Their getaway was clean. Kitty could thread a needle in a hurricane. Losing a fleet of the local PD’s finest afternoon shift was a cakewalk. Frank rode shotgun, held the grab handle, cracked his window for a taste of the late March breeze, and enjoyed the sound of sirens growing distant.

It never got better than this. The sweet feeling of a job well done, the knowledge that a decent pay-out was guaranteed to follow. Frank would end the day almost ten thousand dollars richer than he began it. He slammed the car door behind him—they’d traded the Camry for a tan Accord ten minutes earlier—stretched his arms above his head and let out a sigh of pure pleasure.

“That was a hell of a ride, Kitty,” he said.

Kitty winked at him. Alias stepped between them, bag over her shoulder, her head thrown back as she tossed the last of her Irish coffee down her gullet.

“Quit trying to fuck my sister and get the rest of the stuff,” she said, wiping her chin with her sleeve.

Frank wondered if it was worth telling her that he was done ‘trying’. Kitty caught his eye and he thought better of it.

He circled around to the back of the car, where Beauty was pulling the last two bags out. He wasn’t as fully bent over as he would’ve been had this been a scene in a special movie Frank was directing.

“Not bad,” Frank said as he stared at his ass.

Beauty straightened. He tossed Frank a dismissive look from behind his aviators and tossed a bag at Frank’s chest.

“It wasn’t my first time,” he said, voice growing strained as he slung the other duffle over his shoulder and strode off, towards the bank of mostly broken elevators.

“You’ve been at this business for a while?” Frank followed, hefting his own bag with ease. The girls were already gone, on their way to meet with David.

“More than half my life.” Beauty jabbed the call button. He sniffed, shifting the weight of his bag a little.

“You need a hand?” Frank offered.

“No. Y’know, I like it when a job goes smooth like that. Not a single fired shot. Not even at the security guard.”

“It wasn’t our first time either,” Frank said. Beauty hummed, his head tipped back as he watched the flickering display. The lone working elevator in the building clunked and clattered its way back down the shaft.

Frank indulged himself with an eyeful. The urge to unzip that jacket had never been stronger. He inched closer.

You could always tell a lot about a person by the way they reacted to an invasion of their space. Frank loved pushing that boundary, loved watching the way people would tense up, or puff themselves out, bristling like a startled bird at a perceived threat. Even though he’d done nothing more than stand a little closer than they would like.

Beauty didn’t even twitch.

“Can I ask you a question?” Frank eased a little closer, until he was practically breathing down Beauty’s neck.

“If I say no, will it matter?” Beauty asked without turning his head.

“I like it when a job goes smooth, too,” Frank said. Some guys might’ve found Beauty’s height intimidating but Frank loved a challenge. His gaze darted down to the throb of Beauty’s pulse under his chin. “A clean pay-out can be real nice.”

“Is this your question?” Beauty asked, sounding bored.

“The trouble with a job well done, you know, is that all that adrenaline you had pulsing through your body has nowhere to go. You’re all tense and primed for action. You need a release.”

Frank was not a shy man. Many might say he wasn’t a smart man, either; those who confused his reckless confidence for stupidity. He’d known what he wanted from Beauty the second he laid eyes on him. Now he felt his chance was at hand.

“You know what I mean?” He reached out and grabbed a handful of Beauty’s pert little ass.

Beauty moved in a blur and Frank didn’t understand what was happening until he felt a fist in his hair and a prick on the underside of his chin, sharp and light as a hornet’s sting.

“You don’t touch me,” Beauty said, his breath hot and sweet on Frank’s face. “Not ever. Not without asking first.” His glasses had slipped down the straight line of his aristocrat’s nose, and Frank could see his eyes, like tarnished coins, big and black and cold.

Frank swallowed, just to feel the tip of what was almost certainly a knife dig deeper into his skin. He kept his breathing under control, kept his other hand loose at his side. This could get real ugly, he knew. He had a shotgun in his bag. He had his own two hands, failing that. He could make this real ugly. Adrenaline pounded through his veins, begging for a release.

“And if I ask first?” Frank tipped his chin up.

Beauty breathed out hard, the air hitting Frank’s nose in a wash of peppermint. “Take your hand off me before I cut a trap door into your mouth.”

Frank could still jerk free. Beauty had a good grip on his hair and he was close enough and fast enough to do real damage, but Frank was seasoned at this kind of violence. He had options. Frank licked his lips and thought a few that didn’t sound too bad. His gaze dipped down to Beauty’s exposed neck.

He pulled his hand back and held them both up in surrender.

Beauty’s pretty pink mouth twisted into a not-quite smile. “Now say you’re sorry,” he said.

“Sorry,” Frank said easily. He didn’t know where to put his eyes. There was a lot to take in and he didn’t want to miss anything.

Beauty’s nostrils flared and his lips twitched. Frank saw the tip of his tongue dart out to his lower lip and god, if Frank hadn’t realised how close they were standing before, he was sure as hell aware of it now. Inches apart. He could make this ugly.

But that wasn’t all he could do.

Just as he thought about trying something—his dick trying to wrestle the reins of control from his mind—Beauty’s hand twitched and pain blossomed across Frank’s chin.

“Fuck!” He stumbled back, now free of Beauty’s grip. He pressed his hand against his neck, felt skin slick and hot with blood.

“Relax,” Beauty drawled as he folded his switchblade. “You won’t even need stitches.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose.

Frank huffed, glaring at Beauty’s profile. He pulled his hand away from the wound and frowned at his palm. “You an expert or something?”

Beauty gave him a magazine-cover smile as the elevator arrived with a whirr and a chime. “Sure am.”

He glanced at Beauty and saw his own face in smears of black, red and white, distorted in the reflection of his aviators. Frank’s head felt like it’d been stuffed with gun cotton. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this turned on.

By the time the doors opened, almost ten seconds after the elevator’s arrival, the anger had passed and Frank felt close to calm again.

“What have we learned today?” Beauty asked as they both stepped inside.

A lot of things. Things Frank planned on keeping with him through the night, to examine more closely behind the privacy of a closed door. He flexed his jaw, sniffed, and turned to face the front.

“Ask before touching,” he said, watching the numbers climb.

“Ask _nicely_ ,” Beauty said.

He looked at Beauty from the sides of his eyes, gauging his expression. Beauty looked so goddamn smug, so very pretty and very pleased with himself. It took every ounce of self-control Frank had not to press the emergency stop button and crowd him against the wall. He took another calming breath and tried to play it cool.

“Does that mean if I say ‘please’ first...?”  he asked, raising one brow.

Beauty gave him another winning smile, eyebrows arching over the line of his shades as the elevator lurched to a stop. “I guess you won’t know ‘til you try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kitty is Trish Walker and Alias is Jessica Jones. Both of them are plays on their canon names ('Alias' being the name of JJ's PI agency and the name of the comic she first appeared in and 'Kitty' being a play on Hellcat).
> 
> This story was originally called "The Beaut and the Beast" back when this was going to be much shorter, hence Frank's alias. 
> 
> The title of this story comes from a The Kills song of the same name. 
> 
> i'm on the blue website, thirst-hating on ben barnes, over at nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second job and a second meeting. Maybe the Beast has learned his lesson about asking nicely?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions and depictions of child abuse at the top of this chapter. 
> 
> Jun continues to be an excellent beta. Thank you, Jun.

Billy was five years old when his mother finally had enough.

It wasn’t the first or even the last humiliation she put to him (Carla Russo’s reputation cast a long shadow in certain circles), but it might’ve been the worst one. Because he hadn’t been taken from her. He’d been _surrendered_.

It wasn’t as if some concerned neighbour had called CPS. Not like someone had heard a baby screaming and screaming through the cardboard walls of her shithole apartment and thought maybe there was some helpless kid who wasn’t getting his needs seen to. Not like someone had noticed that Carla’s little boy didn’t—couldn’t, actually—talk right, that his clothes were filthy, that he was skinny, that he fell asleep too easily. No one seemed to see the bruises. Or the strange men that came and went at all hours from her apartment. People’s eyes skimmed over Billy like he was an End User License Agreement. An inconvenience.

Carla left him at a police station in the middle of the night. Left him like he was a box of old clothes that didn’t fit anymore. She might’ve told him that this was for the best. Billy honestly couldn’t remember if she’d said anything to him at all.

Five years old was too old for most adoptions.

Five years old meant Billy had memories, he had baggage, and the kinds of people who had the time and money to navigate the labyrinthine adoption system didn’t want a busted model with attachment issues and probable fetal alcohol syndrome. Even if he was white and cute, looking like a cartoon orphan, with his big doe eyes like drops of ink under his floppy hair.

He was a cute kid. Cuter still when they cleaned him up and started putting real food into him. But any charm he might’ve had vanished as soon as he opened his mouth.

Billy never learned how to play nice. He’d make a mess and never clean it up. He’d scream and shriek at any adult who tried to tell him what to do. He never shared. He would shove, hit, scratch and sometimes bite any kid who tried to take anything from him. He was barely vocal. He was half-feral.

His caretakers grew exasperated quickly. They labelled him a problem child, placed more emphasis on ‘problem’ than on ‘child’. Called him ‘difficult’ to his face and worse things behind his back.

Child psychologists paid by the state would come in and try to get him to talk. There wasn’t a lot of money for this kind of thing, so it didn’t happen often. The first visit came a few weeks after Billy had bitten someone so hard they’d needed stitches. The lady sat him down and asked him a lot of questions while his attention drifted. He was hungry (he was always hungry) and tired and he didn’t care about what she had to say to him, so he repeated all her questions in a mocking voice back to her until the hour was up. She told his caretakers that he was acting out because he’d never had any structure. That he needed boundaries and predictable routines.

Nobody likes to be told they’re doing a bad job. The caretakers just snapped back that they gave him all the rules he could want. Nothing they tried had worked. It seemed as if little Billy Russo was just born broken.

Something close to a miracle happened, once, when Billy was seven years old. A couple had expressed an interest in maybe adopting him. Even after two years in the special classes, playing catch-up to his peers, Billy still didn’t know the meaning of a lot of words, but he understood ‘adoption’. All of them did. It meant ‘forever’.

The couple wanted to come in to meet with Billy. There were two ways this could’ve gone.

In the first way, Billy could’ve held his tongue. He could’ve kept his hands to himself when he was in the playground or in the classroom. He could’ve been shy and quiet, peek out from behind Miss Lombardi’s skirts while they tried to entice him with candies to say ‘hello’. A good boy, the way adults always wanted kids to behave. Seen and not heard.

Maybe in that world, he would’ve gone home with them. Like a puppy they’d picked up at the pound.

Just like little Cecily Majors. Cherubic Cecily Majors, the blond haired, blue eyed five-year-old who’d gone home to live upstate with a nice couple.

Billy remembered her farewell ceremony, the way they all took turns wishing her luck (Billy had lingered at the back and didn’t look her in the eyes when they made him mumble his farewell). He watched her vanish into a pale blue sedan. He’d been standing so close that when the door snapped shut, he’d caught a whiff of the baking air inside.

It hit him in a wave, swept through and over him, brought tears to his eyes, left him feeling like he’d swallowed all the air from inside that car, burning him up from the inside out. Feeling so angry so suddenly that it made his stomach squeeze and churn. When they let them run around for the day, the first thing Billy did was crack the home’s front window with a rock. They grounded him for a week.

And then, half a year later, Cecily Majors came back. Dropped off one morning like it never happened.

Billy was only seven, but he understood a lot of things a kid his age should never have known. He knew that what should’ve been permanent wasn’t always. He knew the cost of getting his hopes up. He knew the cost of having hopes in the first place.

Stupid Cecily Majors, crying her eyes out over dinner, acting like she’d witnessed the end of the world. It made Billy sick to look at her face turn red and sticky with tears and snot, her pretty blue eyes spilling over.

When that nice couple came down to see him—and after Miss Lombardi told him that this was his best and only shot at getting out of there, so he’d better behave _goddammit_ —he chose the second path.

When Crybaby Carlos tried to take the only toy truck with four working wheels from Billy, Billy kicked him in the stomach as hard as he could. He laughed when Carlos fell over wheezing, tears streaming down his dumb face.

When Miss Lombardi came storming over, looking ready to haul off and hit him, he shrieked like a skinned cat and ran full tilt to the other side of the playground. It took three adults to corner him.

The couple never looked at Billy again. They adopted some baby with white-blond hair like feather down. Billy found her the day before they came to pick her up and spat on her soft forehead.

“You’re a little shit heel, Russo, you know that?” Miss Lombardi hissed as she dragged him through the halls by the arm.

“You’re hurting,” he snapped as he tried to dig in his heels. She just yanked harder. There would always be someone stronger and it would be another five years before Billy could get his hands on a knife.

“You’re never going to get anywhere, you know that? You’re going to end up just like your crack-whore mother. She should’ve drowned you like a kitten in a sack. All you’ll ever be is a drain on society. Do you know what ‘drain’ means, dummy?” she asked.

He lashed out with a howl, knocked his little fist against her wrist. She whirled on him and slapped him hard around the mouth. He went quiet, stunned, while she pulled him down the hall until they were in front of a closed door.

“How about ‘worthless’? Do you know that one?” Her voice trembled as she fumbled with her keys. “Mark my words, you’ll be sucking dick for dollars by the time you’re fifteen.”

Twelve, actually, and he wasn’t offered money for it.

She jammed her key into the lock, yanked the door open and shoved him inside. He screamed again, scrambled to his feet, but the door slammed shut before he could launch himself at her with all his claws and fangs. He hit the wood, roared with anger, and attacked the door with his fists and feet.

He heard her laugh on the other side. “Good luck with that, stupid. If you see something to hang yourself with, do us all a favour and don’t hesitate.”

Billy’s voice cracked over his next scream. He pounded against the door with his hands, his feet, and even his forehead out of the frenzy his temper had worked him into.

His anger fled as quickly as it’d come, leaving him slumped over and dizzy from the force of his possession. He sat down on the ground, panting hard. His cheek hurt. Everything hurt a little bit; throbbing pains from his hands and feet, his knees and his head. His stomach ached. Without his temper to keep him company, all he had was his sore body, all the pains he’d accumulated.

He rubbed his running nose, and felt that his cheeks were wet and hot and his eyes were spilling over. A whimper hiccoughed from his throat. He wrapped both hands around his mouth, clenched his trembling jaw tight, determined not to make a sound.

This was what Billy remembered. Trembling in the dark of an old closet, too far from the rest of the home for anyone to hear him but still he kept his mouth shut, tried to smother the rest of the little puppydog whimpers that tried to eke out of his tight throat.

It didn’t matter that he’d ruined his only chance. He was little but he wasn’t stupid. Any chance that relied on the kindness and mercy of someone else wasn’t one worth taking. People couldn’t be trusted.

His own mother didn’t want him. Why would strangers be any different?

* * *

A month passed, more or less uneventfully. Billy found work here and there, felt out his connections and started building new ones. Attracted the right kind of attention from the right kind of people. He didn’t regret pulling up roots two years ago but rebuilding his reputation was a pain in the ass. It meant he had to do some jobs he wouldn’t have touched back in NYC. Smash and grab, run-by-night shit. More risk than reward, but at least he could start showing off. He kept his cool. He was famous for it.

Getting his name into the famed Micro’s books was a good move. Micro was behind all the best jobs in the city and work with him was guaranteed to be lucrative. Billy knew better that, as the new guy, it would be a while before he got a call back. Micro kept most of his assets at arm’s length anyway.

Except for the famed ‘Beast’, who was a constant in every one of Micro’s jobs and his rumoured right-hand man. Micro’s hammer. An asshole in dire need of a lesson in manners.

That might’ve been a mistake. If Beast was Micro’s guy, maybe Billy should’ve been a little nicer, more accommodating to his advances. That might’ve been the smart thing but fuck, Billy hated _accommodating_ his way through this business. That was the kind of reputation he didn’t need.

It should’ve been quiet for the next few months, now that he’d gotten his chance to impress Micro. If he got a call back (and that wasn’t a big ‘if’), it’d been a while coming. It was a surprise, then, when his phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number less than three weeks after that job. The text contained nothing but a time and an address, but Billy knew who it was from.

The tip of the straw clicked against Billy’s teeth. He turned the screen off and set his phone face down onto the spindly table. The café buzzed with the activity of a mid-day rush, office workers lining up for their afternoon espresso fix, moms fresh from baby yoga with massive strollers parked in the couch nook, bubbly teen girls in fake mukluks and stretchy pants drinking brick-thick mocha-fraps or tea lattes.

Billy sat by himself, attracting attention he ignored, and tried to imagine why on earth Micro would ask him back so soon. It’d be flattering to think he was just that good. He _was_ , but nothing about his last job would suggest it. He’d been competent and calm and nothing went sideways, but most jobs were like that if the people involved had an ounce of sense. He tugged the straw from his latte and gave the melting ice a quick shake.

He thought about the Beast and wondered if maybe this call-back had nothing to do with Micro. Billy didn’t like rolling over for guys like Beast, but if it meant he’d get a little deeper into Micro’s good graces, it might be worth playing nice with his attack dog.

He thought of the Beast the way he’d left him, with blood streaming down his neck, a red stripe down the knob of his throat.

Billy chewed absently on the edge of his straw, his gaze sliding out of focus. One of the mothers tugged her tunic down over her thighs, cast Billy a glance from under her lashes. Her friend pressed her stir stick against her bottom lip, leaned forward in her seat and stared at Billy openly.

Billy’d lead the kind of life that attracted certain kinds of people—people with hollow eyes, with sharp smiles, with hard edges. There were people like Alias, those who were empty and strung out on their substance of choice (alcohol wasn’t a bad one, all things considered), who looked at the world with a permanent dulled rage. Or you had people like Kitty, who treated the whole thing like a game they could leave behind when they got bored with it.

There were people like Billy. The types who fell into the life like it was a grave that’d been dug for them. He squeezed the straw between his teeth.

And then there were people like the Beast. Usually tattooed, usually big and kind of ugly. Usually men, but not always. The types who were a little all of the above. Who were angry, who were playing a game, who fell into it because there weren’t many options available to them. Because they liked to hurt people and there weren’t many jobs that let them do what they liked.

Beast had big hands. His fingers looked rough, calloused. Like he’d been handling guns and dishing out pain with his bare fists for a long time. He should’ve been ugly—life had tried to beat an ugliness into him—but Billy couldn’t think of him like that.

He could not stop thinking about his lips. What kind of man had lips that full and pink? The way his chest looked in that tight t-shirt. The way the fabric stretched across his tits. The straw bent in Billy’s mouth.

He could play nice. Beast seemed pretty simple. Billy could run circles around him, easy. He could have him wrapped around his pinkie by sundown.

But, as he thought about Beast’s face, the way his pupils expanded and his breathing grew ragged when Billy held his knife to his throat, he wondered if nice was even the way to go. If he even really wanted to be nice at all, when mean could be so satisfying.

Billy’d been sticking to women since he’d come to town and only the ones who approached him first at the high class hotel bars he liked to haunt. The sort of gals who would take him someplace nice and show him a good time with their soft hands and manicured nails. His back still stung from his last hook-up.

It’d been a long time since he’d sunk his teeth into someone thick, since he’d smelled someone else’s cologne, felt rough, big hands on him. Women liked to fuck Billy as if he was some exotic creature they’d lured indoors for the night.

Men—or at least the kind of men Billy liked—liked to fuck Billy like they had a grudge against him. Like they’d caught him smiling at their little sister.

When Billy pushed his chair back and stood up, people noticed. He left his trash on the table and walked from the café, the desperate and hungry looks of a dozen people sticking to his back.

* * *

Billy arrived at what he supposed used to be an office building before anyone else. He liked being in a place without people. These empty, abandoned spaces that Micro seemed to favour were interesting in their ugliness.

Broken light fixtures hung from the drooping ceiling, bare concrete floors with yellowing glue the only sign that there’d been carpet before. The walls were stripped bare, or knocked down between rooms, leaving empty frames like open mouths with missing teeth in their place. There was graffiti everywhere. Billy strolled around the perimeter, appraising the marked up walls like a patron in an art gallery.

At least it was quiet. Billy lived alone but he could always hear his neighbours through the wall of his apartment. He stood by the window and watched the clouds roll in from the east.

Billy heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, heard the door creak open. He kept his eyes fixed on the darkening skyline. He didn’t turn, not even when he heard a quiet growl behind him.

“You really are like a beast, huh?” he asked. “You always growl at people you barely know?”

“Nah, not always.” Billy heard the sound of something heavy land on the table with a soft thump. Figures Beast would be given the gear to deliver. “Just the ones who look like you.”

Billy’s lips twisted in a smile. “Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”

“You can take it however you like.” Heavy footfalls behind him. Beast was trying to be heard, forecasting his approach just in case Billy was feeling twitchy. Billy didn’t turn his head when the Beast entered his peripheral vision. He leaned against the window, just within arm’s reach, but a little more respectful of Billy’s boundaries than he’d been last time.

Billy kind of wished he’d try something.

“For what it’s worth, I did mean it as a compliment,” Beast said.

“That a fact.” Billy pulled his lower lip under his teeth, smiling still. He still wouldn’t turn to look. He knew Beast’s type, even if he didn’t know him from Adam. He had a feeling that Beast wasn’t the kind of guy people ignored. “I suppose I have you to thank for my call-back with Micro?”

“What makes you think it was me?” Beast asked. He had a rough voice, a permanent rumble of gravel in his words.

“I’m a very smart man,” Billy said.

“Yeah. I bet you are,” Beast said. Billy didn’t have to look to know he was leering. “You’re the whole package, huh? How much would it cost to open you up like a present?”

Billy laughed at that, surprised and a little delighted by the audacity. “You’ve got a real set on you, huh?” he said, turning to address him at last.

Beast smiled and Jesus Christ, Billy had been holding out some hope that his lips weren’t as pink as he’d remembered them. So much for that.

He was dressed like he’d just come from the gym, pink and freshly showered. He wore a pair of jeans and a large hoodie with the zipper half-way down and nothing underneath. It took every ounce of Billy’s restraint not to stare at his cleavage, and even that wasn’t enough.

“I do,” Beast said, lips twitching as Billy’s gaze sank. “I can show ‘em to you, if you want.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “You don’t even have to ask nicely.”

“If you show me your balls and I don’t ask for it, I’ll cut ‘em off,” Billy said with a smile. Beast’s eyes gleamed but he pulled away.

“I wasn’t gonna,” he said, settling back. “But anyway, how much?”

“More than you could afford,” Billy said.

Beast whistled low. “I don’t know about that. We got a job ahead of us, remember? Seven G’s a piece if this one goes right. And it will.” He licked his obscene lips and gave Billy another once over. “I could show you a real good time with seven grand in hand.”

Billy raised an eyebrow. “You’d blow your earnings on a chance to fuck me?”

“I’d blow up the Capitol Building if you’d let me touch you,” Beast said easily.

Billy laughed again while his cheeks grew unexpectedly warm. “You’re an idiot.” He rubbed his hand over his smiling mouth, unnerved that he could feel it crinkle the lines around his eyes.

“Sometimes,” Beast agreed.

“Is that you asking me nicely?” Billy asked.

Beast turned to face Billy head on. He’d kept his distance, but somehow just the mere act of putting his full attention on Billy felt… intimate. Billy swallowed as his stomach grew warm and tight.

This was what people meant when they talked about fight or flight. When the adrenaline started pumping and Billy’s heart began to knock around the empty cavern of his chest. Like he’d already started moving, blood running quick to keep up. He was used to feeling like this during a job, with a shotgun cradled in his hands, his own breath hot and sweet against the mask over his face.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been affected like this by just one person. He curled his fingers into a fist, crossed his arms over his chest.

“No,” Beast said. His smile felt dangerous. “This is.” He leaned forward. “Are you gonna let me touch you, beautiful?”

Christ, Billy was tempted. Staring down Beast’s open hoodie, getting an eyeful of his colourful ink over the swell of his chest, Billy found it difficult not to just reach out. Press his fingers against that skin, see if it was as soft as it looked.

But Billy could be strong when he thought it might be worth it. He turned away with an easy smile, poked his tongue into the hollow of his cheek. Knowing that it might be his undoing, and hoping he was right, Billy said: “I haven’t heard the magic word yet.”

Some of the mirth dropped away from Beast’s expression. He caught Billy’s gaze almost without trying.

“ _Please_ , beautiful,” he said, his voice dropped to a low rumble. “Please.”

Billy breathed in sharply like he’d just woken up from an exciting dream. That word from Beast’s cupid bow lips felt like a red needle of fire forced through his chest. Burning too hot to cause any real pain. Billy kept enough of himself to keep smiling like this was all a good joke, but he could feel it strain his cheeks.

And maybe it showed. Beast’s smile grew crooked, smug. Billy wanted so badly to just touch…

The sound of footsteps in the stairwell broke the spell. Neither of them flinched, but they both blinked. Billy sniffed again—all the dust in the air made his nose itch—and turned away from the window.

He stalked towards the table and the white board someone must’ve dragged from an empty office, pulled out a chair and sat down. He could hear Beast behind him, the quiet tread of his boots on the rough, stripped down floor. Billy pulled out his phone, opened his library app and made himself stare at the words on screen until he could feel his breathing return to normal.

He didn’t look up when the Beast sat down beside him. Not even when he felt his attention settle over him, heavy and thick with obvious wanting.

He wasn’t shy. Billy had to respect him for that, at least.

* * *

It was another four person job. This time Billy and the Beast were joined by a man with red sunglasses who was either blind or pretending to be blind. He called himself ‘DD’. Their fourth was a spritely woman with the shiniest, smoothest blonde hair Billy had ever seen. She spoke in a breathless rush, like she was delivering each word over the phone while jogging. She introduced herself as Gale.

DD was smug. Gale was a little too friendly. Both seemed overly familiar with Beast.

Billy wondered if Beast was just the kind of guy who liked to fuck anyone who might be willing. He supposed he could respect that kind of determination. Billy was decidedly not disappointed. The sour feeling in his stomach was probably just too much coffee.

Micro arrived. He laid out the job and their positions in it. To Billy’s mild surprise and gratification, Micro assigned him to be the mouthpiece.

“Beast said you’re good at keeping people calm,” Micro said as he drew their route in fading green marker.

Beast leaned into Billy’s space. “That’s not all I said,” he informed him quietly, his breath tickling Billy’s ear.

“Pay attention,” Billy said without looking back. “I won’t get shot for your laziness.”

Beast was so close, Billy could feel as much as hear the quiet growl that rumbled in his throat. “No,” he said. “You won’t.”

“You know I can hear you both, right?” DD asked.

“Blind jackass,” Beast grumbled. He sat back, the old chair creaking under his bulk.

The job went well. No one died. No one even got hurt. Billy talked the pharmacists and all the assistants into keeping their heads, to packing the bags with hurried but not sloppy movements, while Beast stood sentry behind him like a guard dog.

The pharmacists didn’t like Beast. Their eyes kept darting over to him and their hands would shake.

“Don’t look at him,” Billy told them, again and again. “Just focus on what you’re doing. Nice and easy. That’s right.”

“You’re good at that,” DD observed thoughtfully, once they were in the car and clear of the sirens.

“It’s a skill,” Billy said as he tugged his bandanna down his face.

“You talk and talk. Fill their heads with noise until they can’t think their own thoughts. Like casting a spell,” DD said.

Billy rubbed his chin. Beast sat shotgun in the front, beside Gale who drove, appropriately enough, as fast as the wind. The Toyota’s efficient little engine kicked under their feet, its quiet purr revving into a full-throated growl as she sped them across town. Billy’s eyes wandered to the back of Beast’s shaved head. The stubble there looked close to the skin, like it’d been freshly shorn. He drew his finger down his own jaw and wondered what it would feel like to touch the Beast there. Soft and velvet-smooth.

He sat back, swallowing. His fingers itched to hold something, do something. He reached into his jacket pockets. “Are you really blind?” he asked as he pulled a lollipop out.

Gale laughed.

“It’d be kind of a weird thing to fake,” DD said.

Billy volunteered to haul their gear upstairs upon their arrival. Let the apparently-blind guy and the skinny girl go on ahead. Billy could be chivalrous, now and then. That it happened to leave him alone with the Beast was just a happy coincidence.

The second they were gone, Beast crowded him as closely as he could without laying a hand on him. Billy stepped back until his back pressed against the car door. Beast placed both hands on either side of him, gripping the car and caging him in. Billy tipped his chin up and narrowed his eyes.

“You’re gettin’ awfully familiar,” he said, clicking the root beer flavoured lolly to the other side of his mouth.

Beast’s eyelashes fluttered. He breathed in slowly, like he was savouring the fact that they were sharing air. “It is like casting a spell. You got a nice voice.” He gave him a considering look. “Is everything about you beautiful?”

Billy pulled the candy out from his mouth slowly, letting his wet lips wrap around the lolly before he removed it with a pop. It was a basic, shameless move, but Beast didn’t strike him as the kind of guy who appreciated subtly.

“Not everything,” Billy said. He felt rewarded when Beast stared at his mouth, his chest swelling with another long inhale.

“Can I have some?” Beast asked, listing forward. “Please?”

Shit. That word still hit him like a love tap to the chest. Billy might’ve been in actual trouble. He stuck the candy back between his lips and gave it a single, noisy suck. Beast’s nostrils flared, another low, soft growl rising in his throat.

But he didn’t touch. Billy smiled.

“My offer still stands, you know,” Beast said. “We got the stuff. Once Micro pays us, my money’s all yours, if you’re interested.”

“Why don’t you just… give me your money?” Billy asked, tilting his head.

Beast huffed a soft laugh. “Cause I want to spend time with you.”

Not a complete push-over, then. “You wanna buy it, you mean.”

“Sure,” the Beast said with a shrug. “Let me buy you somethin’ nice.”

“Like what?” Billy asked, intrigued.

“Like the nicest hotel room in the nicest hotel in the city,” Beast said. Billy laughed. “Penthouse suite. Presidential. Hell, we can get the honeymoon if you want it. You name the place and I’ll take you there tonight. We’ll get room service. You can order whatever you like.”

Billy let his smile shrink to something thinner, meaner. Lowered his lashes and aimed a look that he knew for a fact could reduce the steeliest men to jelly right into Beast’s beat-up, beautiful face.

“You’ll spoil me,” Billy purred.

Beast’s lips parted. The car roof creaked under his hands. “Yessir, that’s the idea,” he said.

Billy’s teeth clicked against the candy, arousal pumping its poisons through his veins. And damn it all, Billy’s control must’ve slipped and it must’ve shown on his face, because Beast eased an inch closer, one corner of his lips lifting.

Billy could be strong when he needed to be, when he thought it might be worth it. But he was also greedy and a hedonist. It’d been a long damn time since he’d taken a meathead like Beast to bed.

“I’ll take you to any hotel room you like,” Beast said, voice lowering to a rumble. He was so close, less than an inch away, that Billy could feel the warmth radiating off of him. Smell his drugstore body wash and that faint, unique scent of bare skin. “Lay you out on that nice pillow-top mattress and fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk straight after.”

The lollipop shattered in Billy’s mouth.

“Please,” Beast whispered. “Please, beautiful.”

Billy grabbed two handfuls of his stupid hoodie, yanked him close, and kissed his perfect lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'DD' is Matt and is obviously a reference to Daredevil. 'Gale' is Karen because I... couldn't think of a better one. Deborah Ann Woll you're very talented but for real why do you always sound like you did a bunch of jumping jacks before the camera turned on. 
> 
> Foggy's probably in this universe. I haven't written him in this story but he's probably around, still calling himself 'Foggy' and calling Matt an asshole.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left comments, kudos, bookmarks, and the rest. I'm so glad people are enjoying this...
> 
> anyway, next time on Heart of a Dog: they fuck.
> 
> i'm on tumblo: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, they fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of child abuse at the top of this chapter. Nothing more explicit than we get in the show, but just FYI. 
> 
> Thanks again to Jun aka ssealdog for continuing to be the Best Beta!
> 
> Also this chapter is NSFW.

The first time a man called him ‘pretty’, Billy was just barely ten years old. He’d outgrown ‘cute’.

He’d gotten calmer since the regular meltdowns he’d had at the Happy Glade Group Home, now that he’d been taken from the remedial classes and put in with the rest of the kids, away from the small-eyed scrutiny of Miss Lombardi. His temper could still blind-side him, but he’d gained some control over himself.

By the time he was ten, he’d done two stints with two different foster families, two stints in different group homes, and transferred to five different schools.

The first man to call Billy ‘pretty’ was related to his then-foster dad in some way. A cousin or something, but he asked Billy to call him ‘Uncle Pete’. Uncle Pete was barely out of high school at the time, but all adults looked the same to Billy.

Uncle Pete liked to buy Billy ice cream on hot days and watch him eat it. Watch him lick melting vanilla-chocolate swirl from his fingers. Stared at his mouth.

Billy was young and inexperienced, but he wasn’t innocent and he was far from stupid. He’d seen the after-school specials.

Still. Ice cream was ice cream. Billy never turned down a free treat, even if it wasn’t exactly free. Uncle Pete must’ve had a shred of his soul left in him somewhere, because he never did anything but stare and ask Billy if he’d ever kissed a girl.

“Girls are gonna love you,” Pete said to him. “You’re such a pretty boy.” He pushed a hank of dark hair back from Billy’s forehead.

Billy’s stomach squeezed like a closed fist around a scoop of cookie dough ice cream. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked away.

That was the first time. It was never going to be the last.

Because Billy _was_ pretty. He had eyes like Bambi’s mom’s, big and so dark they glittered when they caught the light. Thick lashes and a wide, expressive mouth. The lines of his cheekbones and jaw were starting to develop, showing definition under the baby softness of the youth he’d already started to shed.

Not a year later a Good Samaritan cupped Billy’s chin with one hand and told him he had a pretty mouth. His eyes were empty and his smile was sweet as golden syrup and Billy was young, but he could never be that stupid. He knew this one wouldn’t be like timid Uncle Pete.

Billy fractured his face with a stick ball bat.  It was the first time he’d used a weapon on another person. Adrenaline hit him like a fist to the frontal lobe at the sight of that big man falling back. He’d never felt so good in his life.

But the Samaritan was still bigger, still stronger. He twisted the bat from Billy’s grip, and broke Billy’s arm.

(Billy learned an important lesson that day. Next time, he’d bring a knife.)

Men liked to call Billy ‘pretty’. They’d been doing it for a long time. By the time Billy was fifteen, there was no going back. Puberty hit his peers like a freight train, but while they grew over-sized and awkward, Billy flourished. He skimmed across the surface of all that teen embarrassment, grew into a face that earned him a lot of attention. He could’ve been in a boy band and he’d still would’ve been the ‘pretty one’.

And it was almost always men who called him that.

‘Pretty’ was a word with a leer built into it. ‘Pretty’ was a reminder, a way to demean, feminize, put Billy in his place—which in a certain man’s eyes was on his back or on his knees. ‘Pretty’ could feel like an unwanted caress. It made him feel like he needed a shower.

He chose the name ‘Beaut’ because he liked how uncomfortable it made people. Mostly men. ‘Beautiful’ was a word that cherished instead of owned. ‘Beautiful’ made Billy feel like he was getting something over them every time he made them say it.

Truth was, if the Beast had called him ‘pretty’ that day, if he’d said anything but ‘beautiful’, letting the word roll from his mouth as smooth and thick as a velvet plume of smoke, Billy might’ve been strong enough to resist.

* * *

Beast pulled back an inch, his shallow breath hitting Billy’s lips. “Is that a yes?” he asked.

“Yes,” Billy growled, hands tightening in the worn fabric of Beast’s hoodie.

Beast kissed him with violence, with teeth and a single-minded determination. The friction of his beard against Billy’s stubble felt like a reminder of something he’d forgotten about but now missed. He nibbled on Billy’s lower lip, stroked his tongue with his own, slipped his grip down Billy’s waist, cupped his ass with both of his big, strong hands and squeezed.

Billy moaned and wished he hadn’t. He could feel Beast’s smile, brief and smug, before he consumed it with another kiss. Beast tasted like Billy’s candy. He smelled like he used the kind of body wash that came with a picture of an iceberg on the label. He pressed against Billy from his chest down to his crotch. Billy shifted until he could rub himself against the bulge growing in Beast’s jeans.

Beast growled, of course he did. The sound reverberated in his chest, under Billy’s hands as he pulled Beast’s hoodie open and cupped his chest. Beast shoved his thigh between Billy’s legs, nearly pushing him up an inch with the force of it. Billy dug his trimmed nails into the swell of his pecs.

He could barely think beyond the feel of Beast’s hands on him, his mouth. He had half a mind to pull them both into the back seat of that shitty Toyota and just fuck him there. If the low rumbling in Beast’s chest and the way he’d begun to tug on Billy’s belt was any indication, the Beast was thinking along similar lines.

But. Billy had standards. And Beast had made a promise.

To his credit, Beast stepped back when Billy pushed him, although he didn’t take his hands off Billy’s waist. Beast’s lips were wet and bitten-red, and his brows were furrowed low over his eyes.

“Money.” Billy meant it to come out as a command, but he sounded too breathless.

Beast flexed his jaw. His gaze darted down to Billy’s mouth, then lower to the still-obvious bulge in his tight jeans. He licked his lips and Billy had to force himself to look away or risk losing his resolve.

Beast sniffed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded.

“Money,” he agreed, voice rougher than before. “Then hotel room. Right?”

The way he looked at Billy was almost sweet. He squinted at him like he thought Billy might pull away, say no, tell him to try again later. Leave him wound up with a bad case of blue balls. If the idea of finishing what they’d started wasn’t so goddamn appealing, Billy would’ve been tempted.

“Right,” he said. He’d gotten his voice back under control. A few minutes’ reflection on baseball and he could probably get the rest of himself back in line, too.

Beast regarded him for a moment longer, gaze sweeping over him from head to toe. Billy swallowed and tried to think of his high school batting average.

They’d both managed to collect themselves by the time they arrived back upstairs with their gear. Frank got their money while Billy lingered at the end of the table with his arms crossed. Micro paid them both with a few taps of his phone.

DD turned his head a little, gave Billy one side of a smirk. Gale tried to hide her smile. Billy resisted the urge to check his clothes. Everything was straightened, belted and in perfect order. It wasn’t like the blind guy could’ve seen it if they weren’t anyway.

Beast caught Billy’s eye on the way to the elevators, reached out when he was close enough to, hand just inches from Billy’s arm. Billy tensed, ready to reinforce his rules if necessary. Beast must’ve read it on him. He pulled the hand away, gave Billy a smile instead.

“See you around,” Billy said as he turned to follow.

“Yeah, likewise,” DD said.

“Have fun!” Gale called out.

Billy met Beast at the elevator. He gave Billy an appreciative look. “Hotel next,” he said as Billy stepped inside. “Do you have one in mind?”

The doors slid shut and the elevator rumbled to life. Beast hadn’t taken his eyes off of Billy since he’d walked in. It made Billy feel strangely warm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d fucked someone so eager for him.

“Of course I do,” he said.

* * *

Beast was a good boy during the ride over, although he kept shooting Billy looks as he bounced his knee against his palm. Restless and eager. Billy smiled, sat back, and read the book on his phone.

The Hilton on the waterfront had been finished only last year. It had an upscale whisky bar in the lobby, a spa, an indoor salt water pool, a rooftop patio bar, and a steak restaurant run by a former Michelin starred chef. It was one of the nicest in the city and the first one Billy thought about when Beast offered to get him a room.

Heads turned to follow Beast’s progress as he stalked through the lobby. His combat boots squeaked on the soft, polished stone floors. This was a business hotel, a place where companies bought rooms for clients they wanted to impress. Beast stood apart from the corporate types in their off-rack grey or black suits. He hadn’t even bothered to zip up his hoodie. Billy walked behind him, ignoring the looks he was drawing, his gaze fixed on Beast’s thick thighs.

Beast smiled at the concierge. He even ringed the damn bell, although she had her head up already. She smiled back after a split-second hesitation, like a consummate professional.

“How can I help you, sir?” she asked.

“We’d like a room for the night. The nicest suite you’ve got. The Honeymoon, if it’s available,” he said.

Billy tipped his head back and studied the high ceiling, tried to calculate just how much this building was worth. He spotted the security guard stationed at a desk to the side, a small monitor hidden in the curve of the desk. He imagined what it would take to get things going. A bomb, maybe, set off right there, on the shiny marble. He thought about squeezing Beast’s thighs under his hands while he rode him raw in the ruined lobby once the place had cleared out, and they were left among the debris and the smoke. How good it would feel to fuck him in something that used to be nice.

“Hey, beautiful!” Beast called out. A few heads turned. Billy chewed his lower lip until the urge to smile passed.

“Yeah?” he asked as he sauntered to the table. The concierge gave him a quick once-over. Her cheeks darkened under her contour.

“King or queen?” Beast asked.

Billy gave him a look from behind his aviators. “King,” he said, like it was obvious. “I like to stretch.”

Beast sunk his front teeth into his lower lip, his gaze sweeping over Billy’s legs. He turned back to the concierge with a smile. “You heard him. He likes to stretch.”

They got a corner suite with a skyline view. Not a single muscle twitched on Beast’s face when the concierge announced the price. He slapped down his card and smiled while she processed it.

They put three feet of charged distance between them in the elevator and it didn’t feel like enough. Billy crossed his arms to hide his twitching fingers. Beast kept shooting him glances, like Billy was a dream he was afraid to wake up from.

Two middle manager types stood in front of them, reeking of Old Spice cologne, mid-tier cigar smoke, and the faint tang of barbeque mesquite. They wore the kind of suits Billy had learned to recognize as a kid; nice, but bought off the rack and never tailored. He used to dream about being the kind of guy who dressed like they did, smelled like they did. Then he got older, and dreamed about being the kind of guy who owned guys like this. Now he dreamed about setting bombs off in their hotels.

Billy became aware he was being watched. Beast smiled when he looked over.

“You gonna let me touch you again?” he asked quietly.

“When we get to the room,” Billy said.

Beast nodded, satisfied. “My name’s Frank, by the way.”

 “I didn’t ask,” Billy said, watching the numbers climb. The elevator decelerated smoothly as they reached the club level.

“You’re gonna need it,” Frank said, perfectly serene in his confidence.

The doors opened and the two men stepped outside, no doubt off to continue their night in the lounge. Billy’s heart kicked up in his chest. He flexed his tingling fingers, tipped his head back and waited for their stop.

Good to his word, Frank didn’t touch him until the door to their suite closed behind them. Billy didn’t get an impression of the room beyond the white duvet, the blue walls, and the wooden Nordic-style furniture, before Frank was on him, tugging on the zipper of his jacket, pulling him down for another bruising kiss.

He pushed Billy down onto the bed, the firm mattress dipping under their weight as he crawled on top. He yanked Billy’s shirt over his chest, his big hands hot and greedy over his bare skin, kissing him all the while. Kissing his jaw while he unlatched Billy’s belt, slid the leather through the loops. Kissing down his throat while he unzipped Billy’s fly, shoved one large hand down the front of Billy’s jeans and cupped his growing erection through his briefs, dragged his tongue across Billy’s rabbit-quick pulse.

Billy groaned, pushing into that pressure while he shoved Frank’s hoodie down his shoulders. “Take this ugly fuckin’ thing off,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Frank’s laugh exhaled across Billy’s heated neck. “What’s wrong with my hoodie?” He nibbled at the skin under Billy’s ear.

“Everything.” Billy arched his back, dragged his fingers down Frank’s chest. “Startin’ with the fact that you’re still wearin’ it.” He gripped a handful of Frank’s hair and yanked him back. Frank went, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed. “Take it. Off.”

Frank snorted. He sat back, stripped out of his sweater, balled it up and tossed it away with one hand. Billy planted one bare foot against Frank’s thigh before he could climb back on top.

“Pants too,” Billy said, pressing his heel into the muscle. Frank huffed again.

“Fuck, you’re bossy.”

“And you’re being an ingrate,” Billy said. “You oughta be thanking your lucky stars. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve let a man fuck me?”

Frank shot him a molten look from under his lashes, his tongue pressed against his lower lip, hands stilling. “Oh, yeah? You been needin’ it real bad, baby?”

Billy kicked his thigh again.

Frank laughed. “You know, if we’re talkin’ about our clothes here,” he said as his belt zipped free of his pants. “Let’s talk about your jeans. I’m gonna need special equipment to get this fuckin’ things off you.”

Billy lay back, threw one arm under his head while he watched Frank strip, his other hand splayed out over his stomach. “You seemed like you were a fan of them earlier.” He drew his fingers across his skin as Frank kicked off his jeans at last.

“Yeah, well, you look good in ‘em.” He crawled over Billy once more, nudged Billy’s legs apart and knelt between his thighs. He drew his hand down his legs, nails catching on the denim. “You’ll look even better when they’re off.”

Billy laughed, turning his head to the side. “Jesus Christ. I cannot believe the kind of lines you come up with. How did I let myself get conned into this?”

Frank grinned, entirely unashamed and unembarrassed, as he rubbed Billy’s legs. Billy bit his still-smiling lip and tried not to find it endearing.

“Because you like the way I look,” Frank said. “Because you just told me it’s been a while since you’ve gotten a good dicking from something not made of silicone.”

Billy suppressed a shudder. He hated that Frank was right. He rubbed his thumb over his navel, his gaze dropping to Frank’s thick chest, the muscles of his thighs. “What makes you think I like anything about you?” he asked.

Frank just smiled.

“You and your shitty lines,” Billy muttered. “Lines so ancient you could’ve unearthed them in a pharaoh’s tomb,” he said as Frank’s hands slid up to the waistband of his jeans. “Could’ve found ‘em in Mesopotamia.”

“Don’t know that one,” Frank said as he began to peel the denim off.

“Cradle of civilization, genius,” Billy said, lifting his hips.

“Yeah, neat.” Frank’s attention had wandered and Billy couldn’t blame him. The jeans were pretty tight. He picked them because he knew they’d drive the Beast crazy. He kind of regretted it now.

Frank pulled them off, scowling, and tossed them aside.

And now they were stripped mostly bare, exposed to each other under the low lights of a hotel room that was too nice for what they were about to do to it. Frank’s hands slid up to grip Billy’s hips. All that heat and urgency that’d driven them here fell back to a simmer.

Billy shifted a little. He drew his fingers across the blossoming black and white tattoos on his stomach. Frank tilted his head, watched Billy through hooded eyes.

He looked good under the lights. Stripped from his ugly outfit, Billy could see all the work he’d put into his body. All that power, all that definition. Nothing about it was pretty, but Billy wanted it every inch. He folded his leg, brought his calf around the back of Frank’s waist.

“You just gonna stare at me all day?” he asked, rubbing him slowly.

Frank didn’t immediately reply. He traced his fingers down Billy’s chest, following the lines of his tattoos. “These flowers?” he asked.

“Yup. Belladonna, wolf’s bane, nightshade, hemlock… Others, too, I think.” He sniffed, skin jumping a little under Frank’s gentle touch. “I just told the girl to go nuts.”

“You work in this business and you’ve got a bunch of pretty flowers on your stomach? You really don’t give a shit what people think, do you?” Frank asked, lips quirking.

Billy lay back, breathed in deep and luxuriated in the softness of their pillow-top mattress. “Nope.” He grinned with his teeth showing.

Frank hummed, but the sound came out rough. He bent down and kissed the spot above Billy’s navel, dragged his tongue up to the gate of his ribs. He went on, kissing and licking Billy’s abdomen, tracing the lines of his tattoos, following the path his fingers had taken moments before.

Billy’s skin flinched and twitched, the lightness of his touch throwing him off. Like Frank really did think he was something beautiful, precious. With women, he was used to being the one who gave out these almost worshipful touches. With men, he was used to being on his stomach by now, with his legs bent and spread.

He squirmed, gasping quietly when Frank’s lips found a sensitive spot under his ribs. Warmth spread from his touches, a gentler and more permissive arousal than he expected. It was not unpleasant.

But it made him nervous.

“Is this all you plan on doing?” He drew his fingers through Frank’s hair, curled them around the cup of his skull. “You promised to give me a good seein’ to, Frankie boy.”

 Frank’s exhale tickled the spit-slick skin of his stomach, an experience that sent a small tremor down Billy’s spine, a jolt of pleasure to his cock.

Billy ignored it. “At this rate, I’m gonna fall asleep.”

While he spoke, Frank lifted himself and crawled over him. He gripped Billy’s face with one hand and kissed him, robbing the rest of his complaint from his mouth. Billy made a disagreeable noise in the back of his throat, but he didn’t push Frank away. He arched from the bed, rubbed himself against Frank’s thigh.

“Say it again,” Frank said, his words warm against Billy’s lips. He nuzzled Billy’s face, the thick bridge of his nose nudging Billy’s cheek. “Say my name again.”

Billy hummed, the vibration rumbling under Frank’s lips. “You ask nicely. Haven’t you learned anything?”

“Please.” Frank nosed at the underside of his chin. “Please.”

Billy tipped his head back into his soft pillow and let his eyes slip shut as Frank sought out all the sensitive spots on his neck. Those expressive, too-pink lips dragging over his stubble. He curled his hand around the wing of his shoulder blade, fingers tracing the line of his muscles.

 _“Frank_ ,” he said, almost like a sigh. “Are you gonna be a good boy and fuck me like you promised or am I gonna have to find someone else to take care of me tonight?”

Frank inhaled sharply, took the scant skin of Billy’s throat between his teeth and bit down. Pain jolted through the candy-sweet haze of pleasure that’d fallen over Billy, a sharpness that made him hiss, made his toes curl. Frank grabbed his shoulder and flipped Billy onto his stomach.

Billy laughed, breathless, as Frank gripped his hips, yanked his briefs off and pulled his now bare ass flush against Frank’s cock.

“This what you want?” Frank growled, pressing his still-clothed length into the crease between Billy’s cheeks.

Christ, yes. It’d been too long since Billy had gotten any decent dick. Frank’s felt thick and hot, even through the fabric of his briefs.

“That’s what you’re gonna give me,” Billy said, smiling into his pillow. “Now get to work before I change my mind.”

* * *

Whatever strange gentleness had possessed Frank before was gone and Billy didn’t exactly miss it. Sweat beaded on the coral-like knobs of his spine. His hair fell in thick tendrils over his forehead, into his eyes. He breathed hard as Frank scissored him open with two fingers, bit down on his lip when he felt a third press against his entrance. It was a lot—Frank’s fingers were huge. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he wanted.

“You okay over there?” Frank asked casually. Billy pushed himself up on one trembling arm and shot Frank a glare under the curve of his chest.

Frank didn’t notice. He was watching his fingers work in and out of Billy, with the self-possessed air of a man focused on his work.

“Frank, if you don’t start—.” Billy broke off with a moan as Frank’s probing fingers brushed against the sensitive spot inside of him. “If you don’t start fucking me soon I’m gonna—gonna walk out of here, grab the first guy I find and have him finish your job for me.” Frank growled, jabbing inside of Billy with all three fingers. Billy muffled his groan with his forearm. “And I’ll make you watch.”

Frank pulled out, leaving Billy empty and aching. He bore down on him, pressing his chest flush against Billy’s back, gripping the back of Billy’s neck with one hand, bracing himself on the mattress with the other.

Billy tried to push himself up, but Frank must’ve had at least 60 pounds on him. The resistance, the force of him, was everything Billy had hoped for, but it still wasn’t enough. His body burned with the frustration of his unmet needs. He breathed in sharply, tried to keep his growing desperation to himself.

“Frank.” His voice shook anyway.

Frank kissed him, gentle and soft, just behind his ear. “Beautiful,” he said. He released Billy’s neck, planted his hand beside Billy’s head, grabbed his ass with the other and fucked himself inside.

Billy buried his face in the crook of his forearm, his mouth open, breath stuttering. Frank was _big_. Heavy and thick and hot enough to burn. He fucked into Billy, right down to his hilt, and in the midst of everything catching fire in Billy’s head, part of him actually felt grateful that Frank had taken so long getting him ready, if it meant that Frank could fit so easily.

Frank’s hand slid to Billy’s hip. His finger pressed against the jut of his pelvic bone, swept across its ridge. Billy swallowed, closed his eyes, and tried to remember how to breathe.

He knocked his heel against the back of Frank’s thigh. “Move,” he said.

The Beast’s response was another growl and Billy could feel it where the barrel of his chest pressed against him. Frank bore down on him once more—Billy’s treacherous throat made another quiet, pleased noise—and began to finally, fucking _finally_ , move.

Billy pressed his forehead against his sweat-slick forearm, and panted into the dark space he’d created for himself between his body and the bed. Frank started slowly at first, but even that was enough to push an exhale from Billy with each thrust. The stretch, drag, and burn of him was almost enough, almost exactly what Billy needed.

Almost.

Billy opened his mouth, prepared to bark another order, tell him to go harder, goddammit, he wasn’t made of tissue paper, when Frank snapped his hips, jabbing so deep inside of Billy that it knocked the words from his throat. Instead of a command, he moaned like a whore and Frank took that cue to fuck him like one.

He hammered into Billy, rhythm precise and relentless, rocking Billy with each thrust, his hand tight on Billy’s hip, fingers pressing into his skin hard enough to bruise. His chest dragged against Billy’s back, sweat sliding between their skin.

Billy’s hand fisted into the pillow above his head, clutching so hard he thought it might pop between his fingers. His arm curled around his head, other hand gripping his own shoulder, as if trying to hold himself together. To hold on. But with Frank grunting into the back of his neck, the heavy weight of him on his back, the scent of another man’s bare skin, the burn inside of him, Billy couldn’t hold onto anything but what Frank was doing to him. Billy couldn’t _think_.

It was perfect.

Frank’s grip slipped from the sweat on Billy’s hip. He leaned forward—Billy moaned at the sensation of his shifting cock—and wrapped his arm around Billy’s chest, forearm locked over the stuttering, thudding rhythm of his heart. He nosed along the hairline at the back of Billy’s neck.

“Beautiful,” he mumbled against his heated skin. “So fuckin’ beautiful and you know it, don’t you, baby? Give me… give me your name.”

Billy rubbed his forehead against his arm, his nails dug into the sheets, his breath hot against his face. Frank broke rhythm, thrust hard into Billy, hard enough to force a sharp gasp of air from his aching lungs.

“Your name. Please, darling, please. Please, please… please.” Frank breathed each word into Billy’s neck, mouthed at the skin under his ear. “Please, you’re so beautiful, please give me your name.”

“Billy,” Billy gasped. He hadn’t meant to but he couldn’t think of anything beyond Frank. The burn of him, the scent of salt, breath scorching his neck, lips slick and hot on him, hand clutched tight over his chest. Over his heart.

“Billy,” Frank repeated, voice quiet. Almost reverent. “Billy,” he said as his hand slid down his chest, over the jumping skin of his abdomen, down to where his leaking dick curved hot against his stomach. He wrapped his hand around the head, thumb pressing against the over-sensitive tip, smearing pre-cum down its length as he stroked.

Billy shouted, clenching down, too far gone to stop himself. It earned him another growl from Frank, who began to stroke him in time with his thrusts. Billy’s stomach tightened and the heat building inside of him became too much to bear. He wouldn’t last much longer.

“Billy.” Frank sounded breathless, voice more gravel than words. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Let go, I’ve got you.”

Billy wouldn’t realise until much later, just how strange a sentiment that was. As if he didn’t have Frank just as tightly, just as completely in that moment as Frank had him.

Billy clawed at the sheets above his head, bit down on his forearm and came, his whole body shaking. Frank cursed at as Billy tensed, squeezing him from the inside.

Billy’s head hummed with static. The tension drained from his limbs as he slumped, soft and pliable, into Frank’s arms. His legs shook, and now Billy could feel the muscles burning with the effort to keep himself up right as Frank fucked relentlessly into him. He leaned his weight onto his shoulders, wrapped his hand around Frank’s, over the overheated, pleasure-flecked skin of his stomach.

“Come on,” he groaned into the crook of his elbow. “Come on, Frank. Come… come for me, sweetheart.”

Like a good boy, Frank did, his hips stuttering, gasping Billy’s name almost too quiet to be heard, like he meant to keep it a secret just for them. He bowed his head between Billy’s shoulder blades, breathing hard. He rubbed the swollen bridge of his nose along the ridge of Billy’s spine, each exhale a puff of warm air over his skin.

“Jesus,” Billy said.

Frank’s laugh tickled the skin of Billy’s back. “Yeah,” he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some authors, when they set out to challenge themselves, write in a pov or tense they've never done before. i decided to write 5,000 words of porn.
> 
> thank you to everyone who's taken the time out to write comments! as i'm sure you're aware, the only payment authors like me get out of writing fanfic is validation, so i really appreciate it. :"""|
> 
> watch me post stupid bullshit on my tumblr: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "franks big dick energy off the charts here" - my beta, jun/ssealdog re: this chapter. thank you, jun, once again for your hard work.
> 
> mention of casual drug use in this chapter. frank's a bit of a stoner.

Billy sprawled on his stomach, his legs stretched out, eyelids listing. There wasn’t much going on between his ears for a change; satisfaction sunk bone-deep inside of him, drowning out his usual inner chatter. His leg muscles twanged like plucked guitar strings now and then. His hip and chest ached where Frank had held him. He felt stretched, burned out, perfectly used up. Everything was easy like this, when he could think of nothing beyond his body.

Frank lay on his back beside him, one arm tucked under his head. After rolling off Billy and tossing the condom in the general direction of the waste bin, he’d gone hunting for his jeans. At first Billy thought he might’ve been looking to get dressed and get out of there, but he’d only dug into his pocket and pulled out a black and gold cylinder. A vaporizer.

He clicked the button, took a long drag from the spout and exhaled a thick, sweet and herbal plume of blue-grey steam. Billy tracked its movement as it drifted towards the ceiling. He snorted.

“Really?” he asked.

“You want some?” Frank offered like a gentleman. “It’s good shit. It’ll help you relax.”

“Don’t really need any help with that right now.” Billy’s muscles felt warm and elastic. One hit of whatever strain Frank was smoking would probably melt him into the mattress.

Frank took another drag and let the steam ooze from his parted lips. Billy watched it twist above their heads, thinning out as it neared the ceiling. He turned his gaze back to Frank’s parted lips. If he thought he could manage it, he would’ve reached out for them. Touch his fingers to that fat lower lip.

Frank drew in a clean breath of air. He set his vape with a click onto the shelf above their bed and rolled over onto his side. He propped his head up with one hand and stared down at Billy’s back.

“Snakes, huh?” He traced his fingers down the tangled serpents inked onto Billy’s shoulder blade. “And more flowers. I like that you’ve got a theme.”

Frank’s fingers were gentle where they touched him. Billy’s eyelids sank. A part of him was distantly aware that he should get up soon, but his limbs felt heavy and warm.

“This one looks old.” Frank’s hand flattened over Billy’s shoulder. He leaned over Billy, brushing his thumb across the stick-and-poke at the top of Billy’s spine.

“Almost fifteen years,” Billy confirmed, face half buried in his pillow.

“What does ‘ex nihilo’ mean?”

“Google it,” Billy said.

Frank grunted quietly in response. He leaned down and kissed the wing of Billy’s shoulder blade, and then again on the knot of his spine.

“Flowers, snakes, latin… You’re a real class act, huh.” Frank kissed his neck, and again at the sweet spot behind his ear. Billy made a soft noise. “You’re cute like this,” Frank said, running his hand down Billy’s back. “All relaxed and fucked-out. You were such a little spitfire before. You needed it pretty bad, didn’t you?”

Without opening his eyes, Billy reached up, grabbed Frank’s chin, and shoved him away. Frank bounced back onto the mattress, laughing.

Billy sighed. He’d moved once and now his limbs could remember how to do it. The warm fog he’d wrapped around himself like a blanket began to disperse.

“There’s no rush,” Frank said as Billy pushed himself up. “We got the place all night.”

The mattress was firm but had give under his hands. Billy could not recall the last time he’d been treated like such a high-class prostitute. He stared down at the indentation he’d left in the soft cotton sheets and hated how tempted he felt to sink once more.

Tempted even more by the sight of Frank, stretched out and completely at ease, one arm behind his head and the other on his stomach. Chest swelling with each inhale, hair looking sweat-damp and pushed around from where Billy had his fingers in it earlier. He looked like something beamed into this reality directly from Billy’s fantasies.

Except… Billy frowned, his gaze focusing for the first time beyond the swell of Frank’s impressive tits.

“What the hell is that on your chest?” he asked.

Frank looked down. “Which one?”

Billy had been too preoccupied with lust to really notice before, but Frank’s shoulders, neck and most of his arms were covered with a riot of colourful ink. Some faded and stretched, some colourful and fresh, almost all of them looking like they’d come out of a 14-year-old boy’s notebook. Skulls were a big theme, as were flames. Billy counted three dogs, two daggers, a fleur de lis before his nausea made him stop. Frank’s entire left shoulder was dominated by the foaming crest of a Hokusai wave.

“Oh my god,” Billy said, horrified. “Is that barbed wire on your bicep?”

“Ha, yeah. I used to be an underground MMA fighter. I got black out drunk on my seventeenth and woke up with it,” Frank said cheerfully.

“Jesus Christ.” Billy dropped back onto the bed, burying his face into his pillow.

“I got a grim reaper on my back,” Frank went on. Billy groaned. Frank rolled over once more, placed his hand on the dip of Billy’s back. “Says ‘born to die’ under it. Real gothic script. I also got a weed leaf on my arm.” He kissed the top of his shoulder, lips brushing the line of an old scar.

“God, please shut the fuck up about your corny tattoos. I’m startin’ to regret this.”

“Really?” Frank swept his thumb across the edge of Billy’s shoulder blade. “That’s a shame. I was planning on fucking you again in a few hours.”

Billy snorted, even as interest hit his stomach like a drop of warm honey. “That so?”

“That’s right.” Frank’s voice lowered and damn it all if that rumble was doing something for Billy. He knew he had a type. It’d been a long time since he’d encountered such a perfect package. Big and strong, kind of dumb and more than a little bestial. Wild.

Gentle, too. Now and then. Frank mouthed at the ink on his back, his hand sliding low to the dip of Billy’s spine.

“This room’s too nice for just a pump and dump, don’t you think?” he asked. “And you’ve been needin’ it so bad for so long.”

Billy hummed, entirely non-committal. “I never said that.”

“Sure you did. Just not with words,” Frank said as dug his fingers into the meat of Billy’s back, painful pressure giving quick way to sweet release of tension. Billy breathed out a soft moan, and then bit his lip, flushing. Frank shifted his weight beside him.

“We still got room service,” Frank went on as he slid his thigh over Billy’s waist, straddling him from behind. Billy’s breathing caught as his weight settled onto him. “We could order something nice. Whatever you wanted,” Frank said conversationally as he wrapped his hands around Billy’s shoulders, his fingers working into the tense muscles there.

They hadn’t agreed to this. Billy should’ve pushed back. This kind of familiarity felt like crossing a line. It felt… intimate. Unnecessary. This sort of treatment didn’t come without strings. Billy shifted under Frank, ready to tell him to get off, when Frank’s fingers found a knot the size of a golf ball between his shoulders and pressed down so hard it made Billy’s toes curl.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Billy hissed, his head dropping back onto the mattress.

“My thoughts exactly,” Frank said, the smug asshole. “You carry too much tension on your back. You’ve got more knots than a boat rigging.”

Billy opened his mouth to say something cutting and clever in response but all he managed was another moan. It was as if Frank’s fingers had squeezed all the intelligence out of him. He surrendered, relaxed into the mattress, too blissed out and exhausted to care anymore.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Billy grunted whenever Frank’s hands worked through a hard knot, but he made no other sound. Frank’s weight on him felt like a comfort, heavy and warm, lacking the intensity of earlier. Even without the urgency that’d driven them before, Billy’s mind was quiet. Empty save for the hum of pleasure.

“Next time I’ll get some oils,” Frank said thoughtfully as he ran both thumbs up Billy’s spine. “Do this properly.”

“Why.” Billy’s voice came out flat and muffled by the pillow he’d burrowed into.

“Cause I like seein’ you like this,” Frank said. “It’s a nice change from you holding a knife to my throat.”

“I can still get my knife,” Billy slurred.

“Yeah, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t mind that side of you, either.” Frank sounded like he was smiling, although Billy could not say why he would find any of this funny.

Frank shouldn’t have been laughing at Billy. Billy should’ve gotten up, gotten dressed and gotten out of there. He should’ve left before Frank started getting any ideas about the different sides of Billy. Goddamn that post-coital wave of endorphins. It’d hit him like the first shot of scotch on an empty stomach, heady and buzzing.

Frank finished a few minutes later. They were still both of them a few hours away from refilling the tank, so to speak, but the massage had done some things to stoke Billy’s interest in a second round. His inner chaperone told him to pack his shit and get out now. As he watched Frank stand up and stretch his arms above his head, naked and perfect as an ancient Olympic athlete, his inner hedonist came up with some better ideas. Billy rolled over onto his back.

“You want something?” Frank asked, snatching the menu from the desk. Billy traced the line of his biceps with his gaze.

“I could eat,” Billy said.

He ordered the most expensive item on the menu and Frank made it two. He added cracked fresh lobster with garlic butter, a wild mushroom flatbread pizza, and a bottle of California Chardonnay to wash it all down.

Frank took another hit from his vape while Billy tried to corral his leg muscles into letting him stand from the bed and walk into the washroom.

They trembled, thigh muscles burning. He walked like a new-born calf. Billy bit his lip against a smile.

“Let me know if you need a hand,” Frank said, watching him. Billy straightened and shot him a look over his shoulder. Frank smiled back, perfectly serene.

Billy found two cotton, kimono-style robes folded on the counter, both roughly the same size, which meant that neither would fit them properly. Billy wrapped his around tightly himself, the hem falling short of his knees. Frank’s stretched across his shoulders, tight around his biceps. He flexed when he caught Billy staring and grinned when he rolled his eyes.

Their food arrived and Frank tipped an outrageous amount even as the server gave them both a touch of side-eye. Billy stretched out on the bed, the fold of his robe gaping over his narrow chest, his lean legs bare against the white duvet. The room smelled like oranges and vanilla bean, and the bed smelled like them. He met her eye when he caught her staring and winked. She turned bright red and left.

Billy ate on the bed with a tray. Frank sat down on the floor and put his back against the mattress, on Billy’s side, with their feast laid out around him. He poured them each a generous glass of wine.

To Billy’s mild surprise, Frank didn’t talk much. He sipped his wine and flipped through television channels. Billy sucked garlic butter from his fingers and watched the screen flicker from program to program.

Billy didn’t mind silence when he was alone but it was harder to bear when he was with someone. If he wasn’t careful, it could make him nervous.

“All hotels are like this,” he complained. “None of the stations are on the right channel. Nineteen of them are playing the same thing in slightly different aspect ratios, or the colour’s wrong. One station’s playing black and white movies.”

“I like TCM,” Frank said. “They play westerns.”

“Five stations in Mandarin,” Billy went on as he tore a corner of the flatbread pizza off. “One in Korean. No subtitles. Music stations that only play grainy concert footage from the 80s. Six channels playin’ movies you’ve already seen and don’t like. One of them’s gonna be The Hangover, guaranteed.”

“I’m not a Bradley Cooper fan,” Frank said. He cracked a lobster claw open with his hands. “You like westerns?”

“Yeah,” Billy said as he watched Frank pull the soft meat from the shattered red shell.

Frank found them a western to watch. Billy ate oysters, tipping their half-shells and swallowing their brine. He could remember reading somewhere that oysters were kept alive until the very last possible moment. It used to make him nauseous to think about chewing something to death. He dipped a cracked lobster leg into the garlic butter.

On screen, a young Clint Eastwood walked through a ruined town, gunsmoke and dust billowing up in great clouds in his past. Tall, skinny, blond and squinting, Clint drew level with the black hat on the other side of the street.

“I would’ve fucked 1960s Clint Eastwood,” Frank said with the same kind of thoughtlessness he said everything with. “I was twelve the first time I saw Fistful of Dollars and even back then I knew he was my type.”

“I didn’t realise he used to be so good lookin’,” Billy said. Frank tipped his head back onto the mattress and gave Billy a lopsided grin.

“It’s the legs.” He reached up and grabbed Billy’s knee. “I got a thing for legs.” He drew his fingers up, brushing the soft inside of Billy’s thigh.

They fucked again while the credits rolled, lazy and slow. Frank rolled Billy onto his side and fucked him with their backs to the television. He slid his hand from Billy’s hip, up over his chest, to rest at the base of his neck and held him there. Billy groaned and arched into his touch, too far gone, too drugged on luxury and good treatment to fight Frank. Part of him wondered if maybe Frank had planned this whole thing.

Couldn’t be, he decided as Frank kissed the edge of his jaw and nosed at Billy’s cheek, throwing his leg over Billy’s side. He didn’t seem that smart.

* * *

“You don’t have to go,” Frank said.

Billy shook out his jeans with a snap. “I got places to be,” he said. That those places were his own apartment, safe and sound from Frank’s sleepy-eyed watchfulness, was none of Frank’s business.

Frank stretched out his legs, arched his back. He didn’t argue with Billy. He settled back in the bed, watched Billy with his lids listing and his hand over his stomach.

“Just seems like a shame,” he said. “When we got this nice room all to ourselves.”

Billy shook his head with a laugh. “You already talked me into a round two. That’s luckier than most people get.” He could still feel it, his body aching like he’d gone too hard at the gym, even after Frank worked over his back. He’d feel it tomorrow too, guaranteed. “You should be thankful with what I’ve given you,” he said, voice muffled as he pulled his t-shirt over his head.

It was a little unnerving, how easily Frank had talked him into sticking around. Billy blamed it on the food.

Frank hummed, looking sleepy and a little disappointed. Billy tugged his shirt down, pushed his long hair back from his face. Before he could think too hard about it, he pulled out his phone, unlocked it with a tap of his thumb, and tossed it onto the mattress beside Frank.

“Put your number in there,” he said as he bent over to snag his boots from the floor. Frank pushed himself up on his elbows and snagged the cell in one hand.

“The way this is gonna work is I’m gonna call you, you understand?” Billy sat down on the edge of the bed, and began to lace up his boots.

“Whoa, slow down,” Frank said as he tapped on the screen.

Billy tightened his laces. “Smart guy. I’m gonna call you once. When I do, you pick up. If you don’t, I won’t call again.”

“Back to being bossy, huh,” Frank said. He reached out, brushed his thumb at the stripe of skin visible above the back of Billy’s waistband.

Billy jerked away. “Hey. What’s the rule here? What have we learned?”

Frank sat back with an annoyed huff. “I need to ask again?”

Billy curled his upper lip. “I haven’t heard you say please in a while.”

“I said it plenty before. Here.” He tossed the cell back to Billy, who caught it with both hands. “My name’s the one with an eggplant beside it.”

“Classy.” Billy stood, tucking his phone into his back pocket.

Frank watched him, his eyes half-lidded. It unnerved Billy a little. Frank had something in him, something a little off. An intensity as sharp as a knife in those chocolate teddy-bear eyes of his.

“You need to be careful,” Frank said, as if he were reading Billy’s thoughts out loud to him, unnerving him further.

Billy would die before he let it show. He smiled. “I know it’s late, but I think I can handle myself. We’re not exactly in a rough neighbourhood.”

Frank sat up. He folded his legs under him, skin hissing where it dragged over the rumpled duvet. He braced his elbows on his knees and rested his chin onto his folded hands.

“I like you, Billy,” he said.

Billy’s heart thudded. He tipped his head back and smiled at the ceiling. “Jesus. That’s all? You think you’re the first?”

“I know I’m not,” Frank said, perfectly at ease. “I know I won’t be the last, neither. But I’ll be the only one that matters.”

He watched Billy, gaze like a snare, and Billy swore he could almost feel it tighten around his neck. His mouth dried out. He couldn’t make himself look away.

But he could make himself smile. “You’re a cocky sonofabitch, huh? Cute.” He snagged his jacket from where Frank had tossed it earlier. “Is this you makin’ it official? You gonna start courtin’ me now?”

“I’ve already started,” Frank said. He lay back once more, settling both hands over his stomach. “I just decided I’m gonna keep going. See what happens.”

“I’ll go ahead and spoil that for you, my friend,” Billy said as he stuck his arm through his jacket. “I’ll call you when I feel like it. You’ll thank your lucky stars I continue to give you the time of day. We’ll have another mind-blowing night. And then I’ll either walk or decide to do it again.”

Frank gave him a slow smile. “It was pretty mind-blowing, wasn’t it?”

Billy rolled his eyes. “G’night, Frank.” He yanked the door open.

“Night, Bill,” Frank said, settling back. “I’ll be thinkin’ about you.”

Billy took a cab home. He showered, flossed, cleansed and moisturized his face and neck. After he was finished, he smelled as fragrant and fresh as a cool evening breeze in late spring. The contents of the mirrored cabinet above his sink were worth more than his monthly rent.

He’d cleared his notifications from his phone before giving it to Frank, but new ones crowded the screen, bright and reproachful, accumulating in the short time between then and now. It was the witching hour, and all his usual callers were drunk and feeling lonely. Looking for a good time. Billy cleared them away and set his phone on silent.

Frank wasn’t wrong. People did like Billy. He could be pleasant company for the right person, if he felt like it. He could be unpleasant company, too, and some people liked him more when he was.

His phone bristled with their missed calls, their voice mails, their texts. They grasped at him through the only keyhole into his life he’d ever grant them, until they were needy and desperate for him. Until they wanted him so bad they couldn’t stand it. And only when they were close to angry, ready to beg, he would unlock the screen and let them in.

People liked Billy. Liked to look at him. They liked him all night long. Some of them even liked him in the morning. But few ever tried to lure him into something serious. He intimidated them, he liked to think. He was the wild-eyed, cruel-lipped bad boy from all those romantic stories. He wasn’t the guy you took home to mama. He wasn’t the guy you took home period.

Frank knew it. If he didn’t, he would figure it out soon enough. His little announcement was just barking. Billy decided he wouldn’t think about it anymore.

* * *

That night he dreamt he was sleeping in one of his old bedrooms. This was appropriate, because it was an old dream, recurring from Billy’s first days without his mother. It always happened the same way. Like this:

Someone had pried the window open, the night air unfurling like a cold sheet over his bed. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even be certain he was breathing.

He felt something at the foot of his bed, four points of weight distributed equally on his mattress. He heard panting, felt it come closer, the mattress dipping as it crawled over him.

Billy’s heart pounded like a fist against his ribs. He was locked inside himself, awareness trapped in an unmoving body like a prison. He could not open his eyes. When he felt the scorch of breath on his face, he could not do a single thing.

Billy knew, in the way that knowledge is disseminated among the dreaming, that he was about to die. That the monster in his room would consume him and he would not be able to fight back. His body would let itself be destroyed without letting him make a single sound.

He felt the breath on his neck, hot and wet. He felt the drag of a tongue over his throat, felt the sharp press of teeth on his skin, ready to squeeze.

Fear held him, but it wasn’t the only thing that had him.

Billy arched his neck, just a little, into those teeth.

Heard the growl, a low rumble rolling above him, like thunder in a close storm.

He woke up, gasping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1960s clint eastwood is a fox. sorry. 
> 
> i admit, frank is only a stoner in this story because jon bernthal is a bit of a pot-head irl. this chapter is v short and a little awkward but it didn't fit with the next one and it would've been too long to put it onto the previous chapter, so it's here. this is the shortest chapter in the whole story and it's over now.
> 
> thank you to everyone who has left a comment, a kudo, or a bookmark! I'm glad people are enjoying this :")
> 
> nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an amazing night, Frank returns to his normal life and his normal day job. After a few weeks of nothing, he hears from the Beaut again, although not in a way he expected to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jun/ssealdog beta'd this! Thank you Jun!

Billy woke up to the dawn light peeking through the slats of his blinds, just a few hours after he’d come home to his empty apartment. He felt exhausted and sore, a sense of satisfaction so deep it sank right to the marrow of his bones. He sprawled in his bed, half-awake and still dreaming of the softness and luxury that Frank had given him a few hours before. Part of him regretted his decision to make a tactical retreat, but he knew he’d made the right choice. If he’d stayed, it would’ve been too easy for Frank. They needed the distance. Frank needed to be kept wanting, needed to understand his place in Billy’s life.

It felt like a good day to indulge himself. He yawned into his silk pillow case, turned over onto his side, and fell back asleep.

* * *

Across town, where the streets were kept clean, and people walked and talked with Bluetooth pieces clipped to their ears, Frank stirred in the skyline view hotel suite he’d been left in. He opened his eyes long enough to take in the steel grey sky peeking through the drawn curtains, rolled over and fell back to sleep without fuss.

He woke up again a few hours later to sunlight casting golden bars across the pale wooden floor. Dust twisted in the slats of light above his head. He watched it with some mild interest while he scratched his stomach, his head and limbs still buzzing with the remainder of last night’s weed and wine. He felt that peculiar combination of airy and weighted that came after indulging his wants and needs. Satisfaction covered him like a crisp, cool white sheet.

If he closed his eyes and thought about it, he could conjure last night’s phantom as if he were a medium. Feel the twitch and pull of smooth, lotioned skin under his fingers. The hard coil of thigh muscles tensing under his grip. The taste of root beer candy, the scent of sharp, bitter and doubtlessly expensive cologne.

He stretched out until he heard cracks and pops along his spine, and then relaxed with a long sigh. The words he’d said to Billy just before he’d left came back to him.

_I like you._

Well. He’d been stoned at the time, but he’d meant it. Frank rubbed his mouth and tried to decide if he regretted saying it out loud or not.

Billy was a hard man to read. Those big, dark eyes swallowed sentiment like holes at the bottom of the ocean. He was guarded; anyone could see it. But just for the sliver of a second, Frank thought he’d seen that armour slip.

Nah, he decided. He didn’t regret telling Billy. It wouldn’t change anything and Frank refused to regret any of his choices, if he could help it. But now that he’d announced his intentions out loud, he’d have to follow through. That could be tricky. He had to decide if it might be worth it.

His gaze fell to the pillow beside him, where he found a long, dark strand of hair. Frank was a hard man in a lot of ways, but he could be sentimental. Soft.

He left the room an hour later, wearing the same clothes he’d worn last night and a pair of shades he swiped from an inattentive patron in the hotel café. A pair of Ray-Bans that sat a little too tight on his temples, but took the bite out of the late-morning sun. He bought himself a coffee for too much money and stood on the curb, sipping it slowly and waiting for any cab willing to stop for a guy as big and tattooed as he was.

His phone buzzed with a text from Trish (Kitty when they were at work) while he waited. She let him know she’d already been by the apartment to drop off Lola. Frank texted his thanks while a cab pulled up.

Frank owned a modest house in a not-terrible part of town, where families who earned just enough to keep their heads above the poverty line liked to live. Row houses lined the street, clenched together like crooked teeth. It was a neighbourhood with cracks in the sidewalk, shingles slipping from steep rooftops, rain gutters drooping like damp vines. Some houses were in fine shape, with pristine clapboard siding, green lawns and budding gardens filled with colourful perennials. Some had sheets stapled over the upper windows, old furniture and tin cans filled with sand and cigarette butts on the porch, and rain-drowned plastic toys strewn about their lawns.

Frank lived on the ground floor of an old Victorian row house that the previous owner had converted into three units. His upstairs neighbours were a young couple in their 20s who ordered a lot of Thai take-out, owned a cat, and spent a lot of time watching Game of Thrones and not speaking to each other. An old Polish woman and her adult daughter lived on the third floor. They paid their rent on time, the older one spoke limited English, and the younger composed music as a hobby.

Frank’s unit was the largest and the only one with access to the backyard. He had always toyed with the idea of putting in a sunken seating area, extending the patio, maybe installing a stone pizza oven, but he hadn’t yet had the chance. If it wasn’t Micro keeping him busy, then it was Gleason’s Gym eating up his spare time. He didn’t mind so much. Nice to keep busy.

Frank whistled as he jogged up the sturdy wooden steps (which he’d replaced himself last summer) to his porch (needed a new railing and a fresh coat, something to do this weekend maybe). He stepped into the front hall, his keys jingling, and smiled when he heard the quiet tap of claws on hardwood floors.

“There’s my girl,” Frank said. A forty-pound pit bull bounced on her hind legs, claws tapping and scratching, and tail thumping as she tried to reign in her excitement. Frank kicked the door shut behind him and knelt down. “Hey, Lola.” He rubbed his hands on the side of her head, working over her velvet-soft ears. “You been a good girl with the sitter for me?”

Lola let out a high-pitched yip, her entire hindquarters shaking with the movement of her tail.

 “Hey,” Frank said, catching her sand brown eyes. “We don’t do that. Do we? We don’t bark, there’s a good girl.”

She wuffed a silent exhalation of air. He planted a kiss on the top of her head and lead her to the back door.

“Sorry for leavin’ you overnight with Trish. I owe you a real w-a-l-k later,” he said as he flicked the latch and slid the glass door open. She bounded outside, tongue lolling. He sat on the edge of the back patio he’d built himself back when he bought the place, close to six years ago, rolled his shoulders and his neck, and let out a quiet breath. The air felt warm and the sun was bright and high in the clear blue sky.

He heard raised voices coming from above. He tipped his head back and caught sight of the girl that lived upstairs walking past the window on the second floor. Her long hair fell over her face as she whipped her head around. He caught sight of her mouth, red lips stretched, opened mid-shout.

He had meant to gut this place, originally. When he first bought it, he’d nursed some ideas about one day knocking all the apartments out and restoring the house to a one-family home.

It wasn’t a bad neighbourhood. There was an elementary school ten minutes away. A grocery store a five minute drive down the street. He’d had that all in mind when he submitted his down payment, but he didn’t let himself think about it too long. Thirty years old and newly flush with ill-gotten cash, six years of distance from the shambles he’d left behind in New York at twenty-four, six years from Maria, he hadn’t wanted to think about what he could build here. . Somehow it still felt too fresh, those wounds still stinging from the hit she’d laid on him.

He scratched his chin. The girl in the window (Maddie? Maceala? One of those new names, started with ‘M’—or maybe he just assumed that every unhappy woman in a relationship had a name that started with ‘M’) had turned to face her unseen partner. Frank imagined the kid was lurking somewhere out of the light, in a doorway, or in another room. Someplace he could sulk and hide. She yelled at him again, her words drifting down like dandelion clocks. Voice rising and falling in pitch so that Frank only got a few snatches from her diatribe. It was enough.

He hated thinking about Maria. Something about the sight of an angry woman always brought her to the top of his thoughts. He wondered how she was doing and then he forced himself to stop wondering.

Lola tottered up to him, her chewed tennis ball held daintily between her teeth. “I used to believe in soul mates. Did I ever tell you that?” Frank asked as she came to a hopeful stop in front of him. “That kind of thinking’s the product of getting hit in the head too much, I guess.” He took the ball from her jaws. “I used to think Maria was the one for me. Even after we broke up, I thought she would be the only one. I thought I’d blown it. Sit.”

She sat. He patted her on the head. She thumped her skinny tail against the wood, producing a clear knocking sound.

He threw the ball and watched Lola bound after it, kicking up loose dirt in her path. He wore her out like this, although the fence of his backyard meant he couldn’t get his usual distance. The sky hung above his head, bright and fine as a painted china bowl, the sun rolling along its curve. Lola’s chest heaved as she ran back and forth. Upstairs, the young couple argued without working up the passion to start screaming.

“I tell you, you couldn’t pay me to be young and in love again. It’s rotten,” he told Lola as he lead her back inside. The kids upstairs had fallen into sullen silence. Lola looked up at him, drool dragging down from her lips in loose ropes. Dogs always looked like they were smiling. Frank patted her shoulders.

“Sorry for staying out late,” he said as they vanished into the cool darkness of his apartment. “I met someone new.”

* * *

A few weeks passed. Frank kept an eye on his phone but didn’t let it control his day. Billy’s guards were obvious, tall and spiky. Frank felt confident he could get through them. He just had to be patient.

He filled his time with projects around the house. He downloaded a few porch blueprints online, sketched one out that he liked, and went to the hardware store to buy his supplies. Spent an hour talking to the two guys who ran the place and their pet parrot (who lived in a cage at the back and had a nametag). They mixed up a few buckets of paint while he waited for the lumber. Back home, he posted a note to the front door and onto his tenants’ doors. He wished for the thousandth time that he could write the note in Polish. At least the daughter could translate.

There hadn’t been much noise from the lovebirds on the rocks. Frank could hear their mutual silent treatment through the ceiling, the lack of noise as thick as static, seeping through the vents like smoke. It made him nostalgic.

When he wasn’t at home, at the hardware store, or at the dog park, he was at Gleason’s. Three Fridays after his first and so far only night with Billy, he got a call from Gleason, informing him of a new potential client who had come in looking for the ‘best damn MMA trainer in the place’.

“And naturally you thought of me,” Frank said.

“I told him he would have to settle for you,” Gleason replied. “This guy’s eager. Come in tomorrow morning.”

Frank scowled and considered telling Gleason to fuck off. His phone buzzed in his palm, notifications lining up on the screen, his friends looking for the kind of good times that would make an early Saturday morning appointment torture.

“I’ll check my schedule,” Frank said and hung up before Gleason could start an argument about it.

Fifteen years ago he might’ve been able to pull off a late night and an early rise with a cup of coffee and a pair of sunglasses. Hell, he might’ve been able to muddle his way through even ten years ago, although he likely would’ve needed three cups of coffee and a greasy breakfast first. But Frank was thirty-six now. Those morning afters had started to take their toll, leaving him feeling like the poorly risen dead.

On the other hand, he liked working at Gleason’s and he liked the flattery of being the best teacher in the place. He texted back before he could think better of it and gave Gleason the OK.

Then he scrolled through his notifications and picked the person least likely to keep him out late.

It didn’t work.

Frank peeled himself out of bed at the sound of his third alarm. He staggered to the bathroom for a scalding shower, a beard trim, and half a bottle of mouth wash. He emerged in a cloud of steam, grabbed a protein bar and filled a thermos with coffee, and walked out into the watery sunlight, feeling like he’d regained an ounce of humanity.

Gleason’s Boxing and MMA Gym was old school. According to Gleason, he built it himself in the 70s. The neighbourhood had gotten a little nicer since those days. The old greasy spoons, fifty cent laundromats, corner stores, pawn shops, used furniture warehouses, and other assorted money laundering fronts had been all but crowded out by corporate chains, organic baby boutiques, and vegan bakeries. Frank walked past a Starbucks, a McDonalds, a Foot Locker, a Whole Foods, and a raw juice bar on his way to Gleason’s.  Frank had never known the neighbourhood before gentrification took it for a ride.  Gleason lamented the state of it every chance he was granted. Frank made the mistake of coming to his first appointment with a Starbucks and Gleason had nearly hauled off and hit him. Gleason’s Gym was the last of the old guard, as he would proudly tell anyone who stood still long enough. Originally a boxing gym, he’d since diversified to MMA at his niece’s insistence.

Frank found them looking for instructors on Craigslist. He applied while stoned, got the interview the next day and got hired on the spot after performing a few standard take-downs on the niece’s husband. It worked out all right. The MMA angle brought in new blood, Gleason’s held out against the rising tide of white people’s money, and Frank got something to do during the day.

“You’re late.” Gleason was in the employee break-room, standing by the counter and watching his twenty-year-old coffee machine burble a new brew.

He never cleaned the carafe. Frank was unsurprised to see a quarter-inch of last night’s coffee still sitting in its stained belly. Gleason approached the last inch of coffee the way bakers approached their sour dough starters. No one else touched the stuff.

“Sorry. Traffic.” Frank unscrewed the lid of his thermos and took a drink.

Gleason gave him an unimpressed look. He was about a half-foot shorter than Frank, but he’d never seemed to realise it.

“The kid’s already outside getting warmed up. His name’s Wesley Something. Started with an ‘E’. I told him you’d be out in ten minutes. Be nice to this one. He looks rich,” Gleason said.

“I’m always nice,” Frank said as he stripped out of his windbreaker.

Gleason made a noise in the back of his throat not unlike the sounds produced by his ancient coffee machine. “Don’t know why these kids are so interested in mixed martial arts. Don’t know where it started or how it’ll end, but it’ll end, you mark my words. Eventually people are gonna remember the smart way to fight is with your fists and fists only. They’ll remember the gentleman’s sport.”

“Yeah, we’re all waitin’ for it,” Frank said. “Love boxing. Sport of kings. Like chess but people get their teeth knocked out.”

“Not always, not if they’re wily. That’s the key. Being wily. No one’s clever anymore.” Gleason sighed. The machine clicked off.

Frank had heard Gleason used to be a boxer in his youth. He definitely looked like the kind of guy who used to get beaten for a living. Frank thumbed the fat bridge of his nose and reminded himself that he lived in a glass house.

“If this guy becomes a regular, can I count on you sticking around more often?” Gleason asked as he poured himself a mug.

“I’m around,” Frank said as he unlaced his sneakers.

“Not often,” Gleason said.

“I got a lot of jobs. You know how it is for us young types. You can’t make a living unless you’re making three livings.” Frank shoved his gear into his locker. He pulled his phone out, eyed it for a minute, and then stuck it in his pocket. “If this guy decides to come back, I’ll be around when he asks for me. How’s that sound?”

Gleason puckered his lips and gave Frank’s pocket a dark look. “We can talk more later. Don’t take calls while you’re on the clock.”

Frank was already out the door, pretending he hadn’t heard that last part.

It wasn’t hard to find the new guy. There were few people working out at this hour on a Saturday, and Frank recognized the regular keeners and gym rats. The new guy stood out. He had a corner to himself, stretching out on stuffed blue mats. Touching his toes between armless, legless fighting dummies.

“Wesley?” Frank asked as he approached.

The guy looked up with a flinch. His eyes widened. “Oh, wow. You snuck up on me!” He sounded delighted. “Are you the guy? My guy? Gleason said you were big.”

“I’m the guy,” Frank confirmed. “My name’s Frank.”

The new guy stood up, which took a while, spread out as he was. It gave Frank a chance to take stock.

Kind of big, but not excessively so. The guy was definitely no stranger to a gym. About Frank’s height, but slimmer in the shoulders and carrying less muscle. Frank was not a fan of the phrase ‘milk-fed’ but he’d never met anyone who’d fit the description so perfectly before. Wesley had a pale quality that went beyond the shade of his skin and hair, the kind of build and look that suggested a lifetime spent at someone’s teat. He looked like an investment banker’s son. He looked like he would have soft hands that probably smelled like fruit. He looked like he’d stood in line to buy the last iPhone on its release day.

He smiled at Frank and took his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Gleason never gave me your name, so thanks for clearing up the mystery.”

 “Yeah, my pleasure,” Frank said. He had a smile Frank didn’t like. He couldn’t tell if he was trying to be ironic or if he was just genuinely kind of strange. Frank resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his sweats.

“What do you know about MMA fighting?” he asked.

“I’ve watched it on TV. I had an ex who was into it. Loved watching guys beat the hell out of each other, holding each other with their legs and stuff. I don’t mind telling you that we took that energy back to the bedroom.” Wesley squeezed the tip of his tongue between his front teeth and waggled his brows.

“Okay,” Frank said, leaving that alone. “Have you done anything like this before?”

Wesley held his arms out from his sides. “I’m a complete newbie. A blank slate to which you can write your masterpiece upon.”

“I’m just gonna teach you how to stand, move and jab today,” Frank said warily, and got started doing just that.

Wesley wasn’t bad for a beginner. He caught onto the stance and movement quickly enough, keeping his back heel arched from the ground without Frank nagging him. He kept his legs and hands good and loose, too, avoiding the kind of strung up tension Frank often saw in newbies. He bounced easily on his calves, moved quickly on his feet.

He reminded Frank of something, some kind of animal, but Frank couldn’t figure out which.

“I used to dance,” Wesley said when Frank commented on it. “Ballroom, salsa, swing… I wasn’t good enough to compete but I had fun. Kind of the same thing, right?”

“Similar ideas, yeah.” Frank had gone dancing once, and only because Maria had a Groupon to a class. “Let’s get a look at your jab.”

“Boxers used to dance,” Wesley said as he watched Frank take position. “Used to dance all over the ring. That’s what they called it. My old man used to watch boxing. He’d make me sit down with him and gave me a play-by-play. He’d talk over the announcer, sometimes. Dads always want to be the expert in everything. In grade five, I made Nicky Teichman box me. We set up a ring in the basement out of cardboard boxes. He knocked one of my tooth out with a cross hook. Joke’s on him, though; that was just a baby tooth and he cut his knuckles open.”

“That’ll happen if you’re sloppy,” Frank said.

“He had to get stitches and the doctor hooked him up to an IV for antibiotics,” Wesley said. “The human mouth is disgusting. Hey, am I talking too much?”

Maybe, but he could keep up with instruction so Frank decided not to mind. He was still trying to figure out just who or what Wesley reminded him of. A ferret? A stoat? A possum? Or an opossum? Something fluffy with little, sharp teeth.

Frank walked them through the drills. After twenty minutes of practice jabs, Wesley was sweating and panting hard. He wasn’t bad, although he tended to let his other hand slip too low from his face.

“Touch your cheek with your knuckles,” Frank said. “If you can feel it, it’ll be easier to remember.”

“Why do I need it at my face?” Wesley asked, voice almost robbed of sound from lack of air.

“So if the other guy tries to hit you, you got a guard up,” Frank said.

“What if the other guy hits my hand and my hand knocks my face?” He punched out between breaks, his breath whooshing from his lips like a train whistle. “Like schoolyard bullies. Stop hitting yourself.” Jab. “Stop hitting yourself.” Jab. “Remember that?” Jab, jab.

“No one ever made me hit myself,” Frank said.

“Then you must’ve been the guy doing the hitting,” Wesley said.

Frank ran him through a few moves beyond what he’d usually teach a first-timer, just because Wesley seemed to take to it all so naturally. He could jab his arm out like a piston. His cross was clumsy at first but after a few rounds, it was smooth as cheap peanut butter.

“Not bad,” Frank said, slapping his shoulder.

Wesley braced his hands on his knees, panting, red-faced and sweating. He gave Frank a weak thumbs up.

 “You’ve got a knack for this,” Frank said. “If you feel like continuing your lessons, I think we could make a good fighter out of you.”

“I’m already a good fighter,” Wesley said. He sat back onto the mat, landing hard. “But I’d like to be good at this.” He reached for his squeeze bottle—neon green plastic with the scraped away remains of some long ago logo. “I think I’ll stick with it.”

“Good,” Frank said.

“I’d like to keep seeing you for private lessons,” Wesley said. “Twice a week. Thursdays and Saturdays. What do you think?”

Frank thought a regular client early on Saturday morning would make him want to walk into the ocean by week two. “I’ll have to check my schedule,” he said.

Wesley nodded. He wiped his forehead and breathed out. “Damn, it feels good to work out again. I let myself get too sedentary.”

“You an office worker?” Frank sauntered over to where he’d stored his thermos and unscrewed the cap.

“Eh. Kinda.” Wesley folded his legs and looked out across the gym. More people had come in during their lesson, a cast of regulars Frank knew by face but not name, taking up their usual spots at the weights or the mats. “I had an accident a couple years back,” he said as he watched a woman tape gloves onto her friend’s hands.

“Oh,” Frank said. He wondered if he should apologise. “Was it bad?”

“Pretty bad. I got sent to the hospital.” Wesley’s eyes became hooded. The two women squared off, both with gloves on their hands. “I don’t know if I should call it an accident. It wasn’t an accident, not really.”

Frank looked at the back of Wesley’s coiffed and curled hair, the pink curve of his neck. He could see the tendons shifting under his strawberry milk-flushed skin, moving with the rise and fall of his shoulders. He couldn’t think of what to say.

“I think I know you,” Wesley said without turning around.

Frank sipped his still-hot coffee. “I’m Frank. We met about an hour ago.”

Wesley laughed. “No, no, I’m serious. I think I know you.” He turned to face Frank. The stillness had fled from his expression and he smiled without guile. “I recognize those tattoos.” He jerked his chin at what might’ve been Frank’s arm. “The ‘KNOW PAIN’ on your knuckles… You were in an underground fighting ring, right? I think I must’ve seen you before.”

Frank huffed and shook his head, caught off-guard and showing it. “You saw me fight? You sure? You would’ve been a kid.”

“Sure I’m sure,” Wesley said, leaning back on his palms. “You fought at the Black Pig BBQ, right? In the basement? I think my dad took me an’ my cousin to see you when I was seventeen,” he said, his voice warming. “You were brutal, man. I never saw a guy get laid out like that before. You were like a freight train.”

Frank rubbed at his mouth, smiling as his face grew warm. He hadn’t thought about fighting at the basement of that shitty BBQ bar in Queens in a long while, but Wesley’s words brought it all back.

Being nineteen, twenty years old, rage burning in the cage of his chest like a furnace that never went cold. The shouting crowd, wet, howling mouths ringed with red, sticky sauce, the scent of sweat and dirt, burnt meat and coal smoke. The grit under his bare feet, the sting of split skin on his knuckles. The guy on the other side of the make-shift octagon, Frank’s vision strobing and focusing onto him with crystal clarity. He couldn’t recall an individual, but he could conjure an amalgamation, his forever-opponent. Blood-drool hanging from a fat lower lip in loops, eyelids listing, cheek red and turning redder. The sound of breath scraping out of damaged chest. Swaying on his feet, too dumb to quit, too dazed to beg for mercy. Frank wouldn’t have allowed for either, especially not back then.

“Yeah,” Wesley said, nodding. “I remember you. You were a hell of a thing to witness.”

“I don’t do that kind of stuff anymore,” Frank said with a smile and a shrug. “You still want me as your instructor?”

Wesley’s eyes widened. “Oh, absolutely! I wouldn’t have anyone else.”

* * *

“I got ‘em,” Frank said as he approached the kitchen sink. Gleason had retreated to one of two plastic card tables shoved against the wall of the employee’s room, a cup of trash coffee clutched in one hand and a stub pencil in another, and copies of the free dailies they handed out from the metro stations spread out in front of him.

“Good,” Gleason grunted. He examined the papers like a border guard in East Germany, holding the pencil above the newsprint like a threat. “I thought you brought your phone with you.”

Frank hit the tap and held his thermos under the stream. “What phone?”

“The one you smuggled into my gym when you were supposed to be working. I guess you didn’t look at it, if that guy is still willing to be your student.” Gleason held one sheet up to his tri-focals, squinting at the photo.

Frank splashed a palmful of water onto his face. “He is,” he said, rubbing water into the back of his neck. “And I didn’t.”

Gleason grunted. “I heard something buzzing in your locker. Better not be a bomb,” he said.

It wasn’t. Frank knew what it would be even before unlocking the door and going through his bag. His burner phone, the latest one Micro had given him a few weeks prior, was buzzing like a fly in a matchbox. A text flashed on the screen, containing an address and a time and nothing else.

“Wesley seems like a good man,” Gleason said. “Honest. I can always tell. He’ll pay on time. Maybe you should let him win a few rounds against you, though. Just to be sure.”

“I gotta go, old man,” Frank said, already making for the door.

Gleason grumbled and rustled his papers.

Out on the street, Frank flagged down the first cab he saw.

* * *

David always tried to get them to meet someplace new but even a city as big as theirs had a limited number of remote, abandoned or quasi-abandoned locations. Frank had expected another one of these, an empty restaurant or something. He was mildly surprised when the cab let him off in front of a small dry cleaners and clothing repair shop on the corner of a quiet neighbourhood.

A bell jangled merrily above Frank’s head as he entered. The middle-aged woman behind the counter pursed her lips when she saw him. Frank got as far as, “I, uh,” before she slipped off of her stool and made towards the back. Frank followed her.

She knocked three times on a wooden door, waited two seconds, and then knocked twice more. Frank heard a bolt slide back on the other side.

“You’re a little late,” David said. He had soft measuring tape looped over his neck and sweat on his brow.

He thanked the woman and lead Frank into a cramped, cave-like room. The air was warm and damp and smelled of chemicals. Rolling racks lined three of the four walls. Suits, dresses, coats and other finery hung in whispering, fluttering plastic, stuffed tight to bursting. There was just enough room cleared in the centre for a few chairs, a table, and a wooden step stool.

“You taking up a new business?” Frank asked, eyeing the stool. “Gonna become a tailor?”

“Not exactly,” David said. He raised his voice and asked: “You have any luck?”

Frank heard a quiet grunt and a rustle of plastic, followed by a now-very familiar purring voice say, “Lots of Men’s Work Warehouse’s finest and a few choices from Moores, but nothing that really screams sophistication.”

Billy appeared from between the racks, pushing his hair back from his damp forehead. He’d stripped out of his usual leather jacket down to a clingy cotton t-shirt. Frank bit the inside of his lip to keep from grinning.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Billy replied coolly. He cut his gaze to David. “Frank's the other guy you mentioned?”

“Frank’s my first guy, always. You’re the other guy,” David said. “And I told you before, you’re not going to find any Dolce & Gabbana or, uh. I don’t know. Burberry in these racks. Quit being picky.”

“What happened to L.A. Steve?” Frank asked, his attention snapping to David.

“Got coked out of his head at a hotel in Phoenix,” David said, straightening with both hands pressed against his lower back. “Jumped off a balcony into a pool and missed. Broke both his legs. Just found out last night.”

“You couldn’t tell me sooner?” Frank kept his voice under control, even as his right trigger finger twitched. David sighed.

“I wanted to find a replacement first,” he said. “Beaut here’s the best choice. L.A. Steve’s suit won’t fit him, unfortunately.”

“He’s too short,” Billy said absently as he pushed one of the racks open, pawing at the slippery innards. “They’re always too short.”

Tonight’s job had been in the works for weeks now. The product of Micro’s long-standing war against the Deshauer family and their grip on the city’s drug trafficking.

The Deshauers were the big dogs in town, and every ounce or gram, every bit of hardware, every bullet went through their fine sieve before it could reach its intended destination on the shores of the black market. The other operations in the city submitted to their tyranny because they had no better option. That arrangement didn’t work for Micro.

“You should’ve told me before,” Frank said.

“I’m telling you now,” David said. “L.A. Steve is out. The Beaut’s in. That gonna be a problem for you?”

Billy stalked his way to another rack and began excavating anew. “No. No. No. This looks like it was bought for a grown man’s bar mitzvah.”

“Nah,” Frank said, his gaze drifting down to Billy’s ass. “It’s not gonna be a problem.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Hey, we don’t have all day!” David called at Billy’s back.

Billy emerged with a hanging suit held in one hand. “I know that,” he said, flicking a strand of hair aside with a jerk of his head. “But unless you want your high-class hooker showing up wearin’ the suit he bought for a job interview at a car dealership—“ He threw the bag onto the table. “—you’ll appreciate my efforts.”

David gripped the plastic collar and tore it open, revealing folded black material that looked, to Frank’s untrained eye, more or less the same as any other black suit Billy had rejected earlier.

“Yeah,” David said, rubbing the labels between his thumb and index finger. “Yeah, this’ll work. Okay, get on the stool and I’ll take your measurements.”

“I can take care of that,” Frank said, pulling the soft tape loose from David’s shoulders. “Why don’t you go and see to our reservations tonight? Make sure we got the right car and the right room and what-not.”

David frowned at him. “I already checked those things. Multiple times.” He eyed Frank and then turned to Billy, who folded his arms over his chest and stared back, completely impassive. David sighed and rubbed at his brow. “Yeah, fine. You two have fun. Try to actually brief him on tonight’s details and text me the measurements in an hour. I need to get this suit tailored.”

He left them alone. The room was warm and seemed to be getting warmer every passing second. Frank felt sweat on his chest and neck. He turned to Billy with a smile.

“You still have to ask,” Billy said.

Frank sniffed. “Would you have made him ask?” He approached Billy slowly, stalking him like a predator through the hissing plastic.

“Nope,” Billy said.

“That’s hurtful.”

“He’s my boss. And I trust his intentions are pure.”

“I’m your superior,” Frank reminded him.

Billy just laughed. “And your intentions?”

Frank grinned.

* * *

Frank did ask. Billy said yes.

Frank pinned the end of the tape measure against the back of one of Billy’s shoulders and stretched it to the other.

“Have you done this before?” Billy asked while Frank worked.

“I’ve been outfitted for suits before,” Frank replied absently as he started on the right arm.

“You in a suit, huh?” Frank saw the movement of Billy’s cheek, the lines forming at the corner of his eyes, as he smiled.

“That funny to you?” Frank asked. He held the end of the tape against Billy’s shoulder and ran it down to his slim wrist.

“A little, yeah. I’m just tryin’ to picture it,” Billy said. Standing as close as he was, Frank could see the movement of his neck and jaw as he spoke.

He started on the left shoulder. “You’ll see it in high def tonight,” Frank said, his thumb brushing against the skin of Billy’s bare arm.

“You’re gonna get dressed up for me?”

Frank held Billy’s wrist with one hand, with the other tucked under his shoulder, keeping the arm stretched out at his side. With his thumb pressing against Billy’s pulse, Frank asked, “What did Micro tell you about tonight?”

“Just that there’s some dirty cop you two have been trying to squeeze for a while and tonight’s your best chance to get at ‘im,” Billy said.

That was a good summation. “Do you know about the Deshauers?” Frank asked, letting the tape fall slack between his hands.

“I know a bit,” Billy said. “Know enough to know they’re bad news. Got fingers in every pie in the city.”

Frank hummed and released Billy’s arm. “They’re a giant pain in the ass to any enterprising entrepreneur looking to make a buck or two. They’ve become a problem only because of their connections. There’s gotta be more cops on their take than there are on anyone else’s, including the city’s. Captain Herman Pryce—our guy tonight—is their number one pet pig.”

Billy’s shoulder’s tensed. “Captain?” he repeated.

Frank hummed again. He looped the tape around the back of Billy’s neck. “That’s right. A big fish. That gonna be a problem for you?” He slipped his hands under Billy’s arms, pinned one end of the tape against his clavicle and pinched it together.

This close, Frank could see his neck move in a small swallow. “Not a problem,” Billy said, quiet and calm. “Just wasn’t expectin’ I’d have to dance with brass tonight.”

Frank leaned close, pressing his chest lightly against Billy’s shoulders, holding the loop of tape around his neck with one hand, draped like a necklace to the dip of his collarbones. “You know what the job is, right?” he asked. Frank stood close enough that he knew Billy could feel his breath on his skin. “Pryce has got names we need, other people in the PD and in the city on Deshauer take. He’s not gonna be bought out. He’s married to Lucien Deshauer’s niece.”

Another swallow. Gooseflesh rose on the stretch of skin above the cotton collar of Billy’s t-shirt. Billy’s breathing was quiet, but Frank could feel the expansion of his lungs through his back.

“Not much of a family man, is he?” Billy asked. “If he’s lookin’ to spend the night with a high-end rentboy.”

Frank laughed without making a sound, puffing a breath against the knot of Billy’s spine. “Yeah, well. Let’s just say Pryce’s tastes aren’t suited by the kind of company his wife or any other woman could offer him.”

Billy hummed, a vibration Frank could feel where the blade of his hand rested against Billy’s chest. He turned his head slightly, enough that he could catch Frank in the corner of his eye.

“I think you got my collar measurement now, Frankie,” he said.

Frank leaned into Billy, pushing his weight onto him, and slid the tape up, tightening it around his neck. “Maybe I just want to be thorough. Make sure I get everything.”

Billy snorted, even as he swayed back against Frank. “It’s one number. Even you should be able to remember one number.” He turned his head, brushing the tip of his nose against Frank’s cheek. “Focus. Tell me about Pryce.”

Hard to focus when he’d been thinking about this for weeks, thinking about Billy’s neck and the scrape of his stubble against his face. The drag and jut of his shoulders against Frank’s chest.

Frank’s free hand curled around the side of Billy’s neck, fingers tracing the edge of the tape now taut around his throat. Frank pressed his nose against skin, just above where some lucky bastard had poked ‘ex nihilo’ in fifteen years earlier, and breathed in the scent of orange peel and ginger, old cigarette smoke, and just a hint of sweat.

Billy elbowed him. Frank flinched back with a grunt.

“I told you to focus,” Billy said. He was smiling again.

Frank straightened, one hand pressed at the now-tender spot under his ribs. He snapped the soft tape from Billy’s neck.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a mean streak a mile wide?” Frank asked as he nudged Billy’s arms from where they rested at his sides and looped the measuring tape around his chest.

“Not really. People usually find me pretty charming.” Definitely smiling. Frank wanted to run his fingers along those pink lips. He looked down at the number just above where his thumb rested instead, his forehead brushing against the fabric of Billy’s shirt.

“Tell me about Pryce,” Billy said.

Frank lowered the loop down to Billy’s waist, and tightened. “Pryce is the top recruiter for the family. He buys up new cops for their take year after year,” Frank said. The ache in his abdomen was starting to wear off, and he was left with the memory of Billy’s slim neck in his hand, the scent of his fancy cologne in his nostrils. Skin close enough to taste. “He’s a tent pole in their organization. Knock him out and their circus’ll slump, if not collapse completely.” He listed forward, his hand sliding around to the front of Billy’s hip. “He’s almost untouchable but for his one vice. He spends his weekends at the Big Cat Gentlemen’s Club, losing hands of poker in the VIP lounge and taking pretty boys upstairs to the private room he pays an obscene amount of money to rent for the night.” He pushed at the hem of Billy’s shirt, pressed one finger against the slice of exposed skin over his waistband.

“You are just trying your luck today, aren’t you?” Billy asked, sounding amused.

“Sue me,” Frank said. “I’ve been thinkin’ about you all week.” Weeks, if he was being honest. Since he woke up alone in the hotel room.

A breeze started up from some unseen vent, moving the humid air around but not accomplishing much else. Frank felt sweat prickle and bead on his back and chest, under his arms, at the base of his neck. Billy had a light sheen on his skin, a small, damp patch on the grey fabric of his t-shirt at the curve of his back.

“You been waitin’ by the phone for me?” Billy rocked back on his heels, listing into Frank’s space. Frank got more than just his cologne this time. He got fabric softener and hair product, lotion and conditioner. The line of his hair at the back of his neck was flat and neat. Frank wondered if he’d gotten it trimmed and styled recently.

The tape loosened over his fingers. He pressed his thumb into the small of Billy’s back, wrapped his hand around his slim hip.

“Pryce is a paranoid bastard. If word got out about his extra-curricular activities, it’d be death for his career. The Deshauers tolerate it only ‘cause he’s useful.” Frank nosed at Billy’s collar. “Pryce has a standing arrangement with a north-side pimp to supply him with his boys. Micro got between them, made it worth the pimp’s time and money to find out Pryce’s next meeting, but it wasn’t cheap and it won’t be easy to set up again. We really only got the one shot at this.”

“Good thing you won’t have to back out,” Billy said.

Frank slid his hand under Billy’s shirt, palm sliding against the smooth skin of his stomach, cautious and slow. The cut on his chin had healed to a pink line, and within a week it wouldn’t even be that. It made him feel kind of sad.

Frank kissed the edge of Billy’s collar, tasting clean cotton and the salt of his skin.

“Pryce is worried about his reputation, his career. He thinks he’s untouchable otherwise. We’re gonna get him alone. You’re gonna get him alone, in a hotel room, without any of his people around.” He slid his hand up, finding the ridge of Billy’s ribcage. He pressed his lips at the top of Billy’s spine. “We’re gonna interrogate him. When he gives us the names of all the cops on the Deshauer take, we’re gonna kill him.”

Plastic fluttered against other people’s clothes, teased by the circulating air. Formal wear lined the room like moss in a cave, deadening the sound from without, making everything feel close and soft. Frank could have a pile of suits and dresses and jackets and sportswear down from hangers in a minute. He could spread them across the floor and lie Billy down in a nest that smelled like ozone, like clean polyester, that would crinkle like wrapping paper every time Billy so much as breathed.

Billy’s quiet hum vibrated against Frank’s palm. “Right.” He grabbed Frank’s wandering hand and pulled it out of his shirt.

Frank huffed. He pressed a hard, scowling kiss at the back of Billy’s neck, just under the paper-straight line of his hair.

“Focus,” Billy said. “How many times have I got to tell you to focus? You still got a job to do.”

Frank didn’t move immediately, the bridge of his nose still pressed against the knob of Billy’s spine. He wondered where Billy kept his knife, and how long it would take Billy to get it in hand.

“Hey.” A hand gripped the short curls at the top of Frank’s head and yanked him up. “My inseam’s not gonna measure itself, sugar.”

Frank snorted, cheeks flushing with warmth. He shook himself free of Billy’s hand. “Fine, whatever.”

He knelt down, pinned the end of the tape measure at Billy’s outside ankle and ran it up to his hip.

“If Pryce is so suspicious, why doesn’t he have a go-to rentboy?” Billy asked as Frank took note of the unsurprisingly absurd number. “Someone he can trust to keep his mouth shut.”

“Pryce isn’t really the kind of client who keeps regulars. Apparently, no one’s ever taught him how to play nice with others. Lots of his previous partners’d go home with limps, and not from the fun way.” Frank slid his hand up the inside of Billy’s calf. “Damn, your legs are long.”

Billy kicked at him, not hard. “Work first, play later. So, he’s a rough customer. How rough are we talkin’?”

“Rough enough that the north-side pimp has started to assign bodyguards,” Frank said as he started on the other leg. “That’ll be me, tonight. Sometimes even the extra muscle wasn’t enough. I heard Pryce carved up his last boy’s chest up before the guard could get into the room to stop him. He lived,” Frank added, eyeing the number on the tape. “Huh. You’re almost perfectly symmetrical.”

“Sounds like a charmer. If he’s such a bad playmate, why do people keep selling their time to him?” Billy asked.

“Money.” Frank raised to the inside crease of Billy’s thigh and pinned the tape there. “The Deshauers pay him well enough that he could chew his way through every rentboy in town. He practically already has.”

“Maybe it’s better that kid from L.A. broke his legs,” Billy mused.

“L.A. Steve is an idiot,” Frank said. He traced his thumbnail along the inside seam of Billy’s pants. “I’m not sorry we’re moving forward without him.”

Something clattered in the walls and the over-worked A/C tried to kick up a stronger current. Frank could feel moving air on his sweat-slick skin of his arms, on the top of his chest where his hoodie gaped open, tickling the small curls falling onto his forehead. He rubbed his hand up and down Billy’s thigh.

“I got your measurements,” he said.

Billy’s hand dropped onto the top of his head, long fingers working their way through his hair. “Good boy. Now, text them to our boss so I can get my suit.”

Frank growled, his nails digging into too-tight denim. “I can text him later. He’s got plenty of time. _We’ve_ got plenty of time.” He looked up, past the long slope of Billy’s stomach and chest, to find Billy staring back. Frank knew now that Billy’s knife was in his front right pocket. He knew that there was nothing stopping Billy from taking it out quicker than Frank could potentially react. Frank had plenty of soft, stabbable parts within easy reach. Billy could have a blade jammed between the bones of his wrist in seconds.

Instead, Billy lifted the leg held in Frank’s arms and pressed his foot lightly against Frank’s crotch.

“What makes you think I don’t have plans after this?” Billy asked, pushing the blunt edge of his rounded nails down the back of Frank’s scalp. Frank’s eyes fluttered shut, the interesting sensation sending a small shiver down his neck.

“I think I could make it worth your time,” he said before placing a soft kiss on Billy’s bent knee.

Billy laughed, the sound a little too breathless to be mistaken for carefree. “You’re a real cocky son of a bitch, you know that?”

Frank looked up with a grin. “You like it.”

“You’re lucky I do.” Billy’s fingers tightened in Frank’s hair. “Alright, tough guy. You’ve got twenty of my precious minutes. Don’t waste them.”

They ended up taking almost thirty-seven. Billy didn’t complain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone leaving comments, kudos, and bookmarking this. fanworks are a labour of love so it's gratifying to know that so many people are enjoying it. :')
> 
> you can always find me on tumblr: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy and Frank go undercover to snag a crooked cop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jun is still my beta and one of my favourite people. thank you jun/ssealdog.

The first time Frank had fallen in love, he didn’t think there was any coming back from it. It hit him like a sucker punch, knocked the sense clean out of his head. Everything changed, even though nothing did. He became a kind of cliché.

He met Maria at the beginning of summer and there was no better time to fall in love. No better honeymoon period than one spent in the humid, sticky heat of a New York summer night. People were out more. Parks were crowded with bodies, with shrieking kids and drunk teens. Colourful sundresses blooming in the warm breeze, popsicles melting into puddles on asphalt, sunglasses gleaming on every face. All the puffy coats, trailing scarves, thick sweaters, scratchy mittens shed away like dead skin, leaving everyone looking pink and raw and new. Those first few months, Frank could’ve sworn that the air smelled sweeter—floral, lush with bursting new life—that music sounded better, that people smiled at him more.

None of that was true, of course. The air smelled the way it always smelled, music didn’t change for him, and if someone on the street smiled at Frank it was likely they were coming onto him, drunk, stoned, or a tourist. Frank’s perception had changed, that was all, but that was everything.

Being with Maria was like being high. Punch-drunk. He could barely take his eyes off her. His hands off her. He didn’t really try.

She was just as bad. She’d touch him every time she got close, on his chest, his neck, arms and thighs. When the endless summer day finally died and left them in the too-brief, clamouring darkness of a city night, she would crawl into his lap and he would push her floral skirt up, put his hands on her legs, kiss her mouth, taste the orange freezies and rum coolers on her tongue.

They were both young—he was twenty, she was eighteen—and neither of them were ready for what they would do to each other. Frank’s friends made fun of him. Called him whipped, called him soft. Maria’s friends told her she could do better. They were all of them right.

At that time, Frank had lived in a converted factory loft out in Brooklyn, in Dumbo. The aughties did a lot to redeem and glamourize the phrase ‘factory loft’ but in the late 90s, the implications were different.

Frank’s building had been quickly and inefficiently converted from industrial to residential. Everything looked exposed, pared down, stripped. There were no walls separating Frank’s bed from his kitchen, from his dining room, from the couch he’d dragged from the curb and the 15” CRT he’d placed on a stack of cinder blocks in his living room. They shared the bathroom with the all the other tenants on their floor, a left-over from the building’s previous life as a bottling plant. Wind blew in from between the thin panes of glass in the winter, and the pipes would rattle and freeze. In the summer, the place became an oven, butter yellow sunlight baking the exposed brick walls and the sand still ground between the paint-splattered floorboards.

But Maria lived with her parents, so Frank’s sweatbox apartment served as their only refuge from the rest of the world. Hours stretched like melted caramel, sweet and sticky, in his home, on his bed. An old fan buzzed in the corner like a trapped wasp under glass. It did little more than shove the warm, wet air over their entwined bodies. Sweat ran between them, turned Maria’s shiny hair to strips of black string on her face and neck. She would scrub her make-up off as soon as she arrived, flinging handfuls of cold water over her face, until she was red and gasping. She’d shimmy out of her dress, her panties and bra (if she bothered to wear one) and crawl, naked and sweating, into the bed beside him. On top of him. She’d never looked more beautiful.

Frank would’ve done anything for her. He’d never felt so stupid. They were the kind of young lovers people wrote songs about. The live-for-tonight, die-tomorrow kind of lovers. He would’ve killed for her. No question.

The first year was good. Honeymoon period. Everything was an inside joke, every word that shared between them a coded message, a passed note. The world was theirs, not that anyone seemed to notice.

Until Maria’s parents started to notice.

Frank wanted to meet them. Maria didn’t think that was a good idea.

“They’re very traditional Catholics,” she’d tell him, again and again. “If they knew I wasn’t a virgin, it’d kill them.”

“They don’t have to know,” Frank protested. “We could tell ‘em we’re waiting for marriage.”

She didn’t react immediately. It wasn’t the first time he’d broken out the m-word.

“If they take one look at you, Frank, they’ll know that’s not true,” she said, evading it.

It was in their second year—a full seventeen months and three weeks longer than their friends expected them to last—that he took her to the place he once called home.

The old house was in Queens, a full hour and three transfers on the MTA away. They had to walk the last half-mile.

Maria didn’t complain, even though she wore strappy sandals that couldn’t have offered much support. If she had, Frank would’ve swept her off her feet and carried her the rest of the way. Instead, she linked her arm through his and pointed out the local public school, the public parks, the shops. She liked the neighbourhood.

“How did such a friendly street produce a trouble-maker like you?” she asked him, her blue eyes gleaming.

Frank lifted one side of his lips in a smile. “It’s not the place. I could’ve been born in the Hamptons and still come out of it a no-good punk.”

She squeezed his arm against the soft swell of her breast. “Tough guy.”

Frank grinned and stole a quick kiss. “Yup.”

The old home was a ranch-style house with peeling white paint, slipped shingles, sagging gutters, and a lawn filled with dandelions. The front porch creaked as they stepped past piles of dead leaves and rain-soaked stacks of newspaper. The slot in the door bulged with junk mail. Maria took it all in while Frank dug out the keys from his pocket.

Mail slithered to the floor as the door swung open. The interior was dark, the brilliant afternoon sunlight reduced to a grimy orange through the filthy windows. Dust covered every surface. Old furniture sat under floral-print sheets. Maria sneezed. He gave her an apologetic look.

“Sorry. I should’ve paid someone to clean this place up,” he said.

She waved his comment off. “No point in cleaning something you don’t want to keep,” she said.

Frank rubbed the back of his neck.

“How come you never sold the place before?” she asked.

Plenty of reasons, but Frank didn’t have the vocabulary to express them. He grew up in this empty place, even if he’d spent most of his childhood running wild through the neighbourhood. That kitchen was where his mother would make chicken noodle soup for him when he was sick. They’d set up their Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. Frank used to race up and down that hallway until his dad shouted at him to stop making a racket.

It felt haunted. Phantoms lingering in every room, behind every stick of furniture.

He shrugged. “It just seemed like a hassle,” he said.

She turned to face him. Every time she gave him that careful, slow look, he felt a jolt in his chest, a brief burst of his future flashed behind his eyes like the bulb of an old camera. He’d just turned twenty-one last month and he’d never really thought of what he would do next until Maria started asking him. When she did, he thought about her and the future he wanted to build around her, on the foundation of their _their_ ness. The things he’d never really let himself think about.

A wedding. Some kids. A real family. And maybe a house to bring them up in.

But not this one. He took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Come on,” she said, tilting her head towards the darkened hall. “Let’s see what’s worth keeping.” 

His room was the same as he’d left it the last time he’d been in this place, almost three years before. The twin bed, the peeling NIN and Linkin Park posters, the bare dresser, the cardboard boxes sealed with duct tape in the closet. Maria started there, dragging boxes out to the centre of the room. Frank dug his leatherman out from his pocket and flicked out a blade. She sneezed again.

They started excavating. Most of what Frank had was junk. Old CDs in broken jewel cases. Recorded episodes of WWF Raw and Dragon Ball Z on VHS tapes. Plastic dinosaurs and G.I. Joes. A Sega Genesis with controllers and games.

“Anything you want to keep?” Maria asked. Frank shook his head. She dug through the box. “Wow, Mortal Kombat and Splatterhouse?” She laughed. “God, if I’d tried to bring this stuff into my house, my mom would’ve hired an exorcist.”

“That’s a shame. You missed out,” Frank said.

“Who said I missed out?” She grinned. “I used to go to Lisa Jenkin’s house after school and we’d play Mortal Kombat ‘til dinner. My mom thought I was studying. I played Liu Kang.”

“You little rebel. I played Scorpion,” Frank said.

She snorted. “Of course you did.”

She dragged another box closer and Frank opened it with his knife. A stack of yellowing papers, marked up with red ink, greeted them. Old school work. He threw it aside without interest. Underneath that strata, he found books.

“Whoa,” Maria said as she lifted a large, green book from the stack. “This thing’s huge.”

Frank’s parents weren’t the types to read bedtime stories. His mother would try, back when he was small and she was still young enough to keep up with him. She had that big book of fairy tales with its golden edging and soft, green hardcover. Each story was about five pages long, and they all had coloured illustrations. Most nights, his mom could only stay awake long enough to read one.

Once, when Frank was nearly old enough to attend kindergarten, she fell asleep in the middle of Cinderella. Her voice began to slur as she described the little white and grey mice crawling all over Cinderella’s dress and she slumped over before the pumpkin could begin to swell. The book slipped from her hands and onto the floor. Frank slid from his bed—his mother didn’t stir—and picked it up.

He couldn’t read but he liked the pictures. Colourful images of white-tipped castles with streaming pennants and rising towers, castles where princess lived, castles that looked like sugar confections, like cakes.

Frank’s favourite was close to the end. It depicted a little blonde girl with a cloak the colour of a fire truck, standing before the forest. The path that lead into the forest, where something waited for her. Crouched between the white and black trunks of the trees, coloured almost the same black-grey as the shadows, was a yellow-eyed wolf.

Once upon a time, all of Frank’s favourite stories had wolves.

Underneath the books were more piles of school work. Construction paper gone wavy and soft with old glue, weighed down with dried macaroni, glitter and crayon colouring. Sheets crackled as Maria lifted them.

“We don’t have to look through this junk,” Frank said while his heart pounded.

Maria gave him a look, her eyes crinkling. “Are you kidding me? This is your _art_ , Frank!” She pulled another one free and Frank couldn’t find the strength to stop her. He never could.

“You really liked wolves, huh?” she said.

Kids went through phases. Everyone knew this. The princess phase, the ninja phase, the superhero phase, the pony phase. Frank’s classmates went through these and more, each phase usually heralded by whatever Disney movie had just hit theatres. Frank went through a wolf phase. He was the only kid in his year who had.

He drew crayon wolves on construction paper. He made wolves from popsicle sticks and glue, toothpicks and marshmallows, from clay, from bending pipe cleaners. His parents bought him books about wolves, stuffed wolves, shirts with wolves on them. They took him to the zoo and let him spend fifteen whole minutes (practically a lifetime for a seven-year-old) taking poorly-framed polaroids of the wolf exhibit.

Maria found all of these and more in the boxes. She opened each one with a new sense of glee, like a kid on Christmas.

He became known as the wolf boy, even to his teachers. A few of his peers tried to tease him for it before they learned why that was a bad idea. Frank would sit outside of the principal’s office, kicking his bruised legs against the underside of his chair, pick at his latest scabs, and think about the way wolves could bite down and never let go.

“Why wolves?” Maria asked.

Another thing Frank didn’t have the language to express. “They’re cool,” he tried.

* * *

Night hung like a thin shroud over the city. Frank tilted the driver’s seat back and stared out of the tinted skylight, up at the sky that glowed almost golden against the bright downtown lights. At this hour, the city glittered like a special effect in a sci-fi flick, like a slice of the future, today. Glass towers turned into mirrors, reflecting the flashing LEDs on the streets below.

Cars crawled through the roads of the city like clots through a tightening vein, to the gnarled, golden-white heart a few blocks from what used to be the harbour, back when people still made things. The city centre was the entertainment district, lined with trendy clubs, theatres, vodka bars, and the classier strip joints. The sidewalks and streets flooded with college kids looking to spend their parents’ money on bottle service and lap dances.

Employees of the north-side pimp plied their trade out here, although they didn’t solicit on the streets. The Big Cat, like a lot of clubs on the strip, had an agreement to let her prostitutes work inside, where they could cozy up to a whale, squeeze some drinks out of them, and then get one of the rooms upstairs.

Blue-grey smoke twisted in the cab. Billy’s head was turned away, facing the window, which he’d cracked open earlier. He’d wanted to roll it down further, get some night air in, but Frank had nixed the idea.

“We don’t need you to be seen just yet,” Frank said. Billy squinted at him through the haze, his lips pinched around his cigarette.

“You feelin’ a little paranoid, Frank?” he asked.

Maybe. Frank liked the black-out windows, liked the intimidating bulk of the Lincoln. It wasn’t bullet-proof, but it looked like it should’ve been. He’d caught more than one person stealing a glance. He knew that with Billy hanging out the side window, they’d get more than just a few stares.

“People see you in this car, they’re gonna assume you’re a movie star or a model or somethin’,” he said. “We don’t need that kind of attention.”

Billy smiled around a curl of smoke. “You think I could be a model? That’s sweet.”

Frank’s gaze fell to Billy’s lips, to the cigarette dangling from his slender fingers. Dressed in a tailored black suit, with a black tie, black vest, and a crisp, white shirt, Billy looked like the star of a mobster movie, or the lead singer in a popular band. Something modern that hinted at old fashioned glam.

“I hope that’s not news,” Frank said. “I’ve been tellin’ you as much since I first laid eyes on you.”

Billy hummed and sat back, his seat’s incline sinking a few degrees, and stretched out. “So. You’re worried about tonight.”

Frank turned his gaze back to the close, navy night sky. On the sidewalk beside their car, a woman in a red sheath dress stumbled into her friend, her heel wobbling on three-inch stilettos.

“A little,” he admitted.

“You think I’m gonna choke?” Billy asked. Air cycled through the car’s running vents, thinning the haze.

“I don’t,” Frank said.

He could hear the clatter of voices on the street through the window, a peal of laughter like the ringing of a bell. He looked over in time to see a group of kids staggering down the street together, three girls linked arm-in-arm, dressed nearly identically in tight skirts and loose, sequined blouses. Looking barely old enough to drink. A pack of men followed a few paces behind, their intent clear.

 “You see that guy?” Frank nodded towards the glitzy entrance of a velvet-roped club.

“The bouncer?” Billy asked, leaning over the median.

“That’s a Deshauer man. The guy behind the door, charging cover? Deshauer too. The bartenders, the security, the floor manager… Top to bottom, the whole place is theirs. Including the rooms upstairs,” Frank said. “We’ve gotten what info we could, but it’s hard to buy these guys out.”

“I’ve heard that,” Billy said. He flicked his gaze to the bank of windows on the third and fourth floors. He had his hand planted on the edge of the driver’s seat, inches from Frank’s thigh. “No one buys loyalty like the Deshauers. How’d you get anything, then?”

Frank’s gaze fell to Billy’s hand, to the way his long fingers curled around his cigarette. His neck ached with the memory of them, of Billy’s left hand curled around his throat, the blade of it pressed against the underside of his chin, while his right worked Frank’s dick. Both hands gripped with the same firm pressure, Billy’s lips quirked in a slow smile as Frank’s mouth fell open and his breathing came in short, shallow gasps. Taking in Frank’s pleasure like it was something he’d won as a prize.

“That bouncer there?” Frank said, pulling himself back to the present. “He’s new. The last guy went missing two weeks ago.”

Billy’s eyebrow twitched as he sank back. “Missing? You mean, you…?” he trailed off.

Frank idly traced the line of his collar. The grey smoke twisting between them lent a hazy, dream-like quality to everything Frank put his eyes on. Especially Billy, who looked more and more like a modern reconstruction of a black and white movie star with each passing second. Stretched out in the car, his ankle balanced on his knee, one hand raised with a cigarette held between his fingers. He looked like he was posing for something. Maybe for Frank.

That was a nice thought. It made Frank smile. Another ring of laughter sounded from the other side of the car door, followed by a flash of a camera.

Finally, Billy smiled back. “Yeah. Yeah, I could see it,” he said, looking Frank over with appreciation. “You’re not such a teddy bear, are you?”

Frank raised an eyebrow at that. “Did I ever say I was?”

“All that honeyed talk you were laying on me before, I had started to take you for a sap. A marshmallow,” Billy said, flicking ash into his empty coffee cup. “Soft.”

Frank laughed. “You oughta know better than that. There’s nothin’ about me that’s soft,” he said with a leer.

Billy shook his head and turned towards the window, but not before Frank saw his grin. “Christ, you’re embarrassing. I don’t know why I keep saying yes to you. Must be something wrong with me.”

“Maybe,” Frank allowed, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel. “Or maybe it’s just ‘cause I keep sayin’ please.”

Billy shook his head again, the hand that held his cigarette curled loosely over his mouth, hiding the smile. Who did he think he was kidding? Frank could see it by the dimples it pulled from Billy’s cheeks, by the way it squeezed the bags under his eyes.

“You look good in that suit,” Frank said, pressing his advantage. It’d been a few hours since he’d had his hands on Billy. Too long.

“Course I do,” Billy said before sticking the cigarette between his lips once more. “I look good in anything. You, on the other hand…”

Frank looked down at his collared shirt with a frown. “What’s wrong with this outfit?”

“Nothing,” Billy said. “This is the first time I’ve seen you actually look somewhat presentable.”

Frank tugged at the black, starched edge of his lapels while a buzzing warmth crawled up his neck, spreading up from his chest and taking residency inside his head. “I clean up alright, don’t I?”

“Who would’ve expected it.” Billy breathed out a grey cloud, examining Frank with a squint in his eyes. “My only complaint…” He leaned forward, crossing the median once more, bracing himself against Frank’s seat. With a deft hand, quicker than Frank could’ve prevented him, Billy flicked the top few buttons of Frank’s shirt loose. “There.” He twitched the fabric apart, creating an open, gaping collar.

Frank looked down at his now bared chest. Billy sat back, satisfied.

“The only good thing about those awful hoodies of yours,” he said when Frank looked back up with a raised brow, as if that were a proper explanation. Billy tapped his chest. “You oughta show off those assets of yours a little more often.”

Frank smiled and opened his mouth, ready to assure Billy that he’d happily show off any part of him that Billy expressed interest in, when a ringtone shattered the moment like a ballpeen hammer. Frank pulled his phone from his pocket and frowned at the screen.

Billy tapped his cigarette onto the lip of his coffee cup. “It’s time?” he asked.

The text was short and to the point. A table number and a password to give to the guy standing at the door.

“Yeah,” Frank said. He deleted it.

* * *

The evening air felt refreshing as the city cooled off. Frank circled the car and popped the passenger-side handle.

The night flowed on the sidewalk, a parade of people looking for a good bad time. Girls in short skirts and bare legs, despite the temperature, and boys in jeans and t-shirts. They all walked in too-large groups, clots that broke up the flow of the people coming against them. They shouldered into each other like kids playing red rover, laughing too loudly at a friend’s joke in that split-second of contact, just to make it clear that they didn’t care about anything or anyone.

They moved aside for Frank. When Billy stepped out to join him, they broke up for him too.

“Fuck, I hate this part of town,” Billy muttered.

“Stick close to me,” Frank said. He took Billy by the elbow and led him across the street, to the gold and glass entrance of the Big Cat Gentleman’s Club.

“I guess it’s not the town, it’s the people I don’t like. Buncha fuckin’ trust fund brats. I used to rob punks like these for booze money. You’re taking this bodyguard thing seriously, huh?” Billy asked. Frank spared him a brief glance over his shoulder, making a point to raise his eyebrows over the line of his black-out shades. The corner of Billy’s lips lifted. “I could get used to this kind of treatment.”

Frank’s trigger finger twitched the way it always did when his blood started pumping. Billy’s little smile lit a fuse behind his eyes. If they didn’t have this job ahead of them, god only knows what he would’ve tried. Taken Billy back to the car, for starters. Billy liked luxury treatment. Frank wondered if the backseat of a Lincoln was luxury enough for him.

The Big Cat’s bouncer watched the street, kept his hands folded in front of his stomach. He was dressed up nice but he didn’t look good. He was like the inverse of Billy; the kind of guy who could make a thousand dollar suit look like trash.

Behind the entrance were others just like him; rough-necks with poor upbringings and chips on their shoulders. Mediocre human beings whose only use to the world was to act at the service of their betters, at the behest of those who could make use of their petty anger. Frank knew them all by look, by their shapes if not their individual faces. He knew them because he’d worked with them, beat them bloody in concrete basements, saw them in the gyms, watched them grow up, grow out but never get any smarter.

Frank knew them because… because. There but for the grace of god.

The bouncer gave Frank a quick once-over. He took his time with Billy, his top lip lifting like something had snagged a hook in it.

Frank eased his weight to one side, insinuating himself subtly between the tough’s stare and Billy. The bouncer’s glare bounced off of Frank’s black lenses.

“He’s here to see Sterling,” Frank said, giving Pryce’s false name. A few of the people waiting in line turned to look, tried to examine Billy without being obvious and uncool about it.

“Of course he is,” the bouncer muttered, gaze flicking to Billy and away. He waved them in.

Billy, for his part, didn’t seem to notice the derision, or that the bouncer even existed. He breezed past, taking in the entrance as Frank parted the crowd in front of him.

“Looks more modern than I was expecting,” Billy said, strolling behind Frank like he was out for a walk in the park. “I always figured these places went for the art deco look. This place looks like it came from a gaudy future.”

Frank had always thought that The Big Cat looked like it’d come out of a Janelle Monae music video. He was pleased to hear Billy agreed with him.

He kept it from showing on his face as they walked past the good-looking guy collecting the $40 cover from the unimportant persons, and past the two less good-looking guys standing sentry behind him. People watched them impassively, but Frank could feel their resentment like nails digging into his skin. Base pounded like the heartbeat of the world, rattling up through the floor. Frank collected Billy under the curl of his arm and pushed the velvet curtains aside.

Sound hit them like a 20 foot wave. Walking into the Big Cat’s front club was like walking into a tsunami still in progress. Lights flashed through the billowing fog like lightning, cast down like rain from the spinning mirrored balls like flakes of white, yellow, blue and green. The dance floor heaved with people, arms flung into the air like telephone poles caught in surging water, about to get swept away. Three bars stood out from the swelling shadows, lit up like rescue vessels, like the last chance for a lost soul. The air felt grimy, as hot and sticky as August in Tallahassee.

Frank hated these places. He didn’t find them any more appealing dressed in a black blazer with a pair of sunglasses trapping the sweat at his temples. He placed his hand between Billy’s shoulder blades and stepped down into the flood of people. They stuck close to the edge of the crowd, skirting along the walls. Frank was grateful they didn’t have to wade into the dance floor.

Billy looked amused. “I take it back. This is exactly how I’d expect this place to look.” His voice was faint, a suggestion of breath and a vibration Frank could feel through his palm, the sound of his words almost swallowed whole by the music.

A woman knocked into Frank’s arm, sloshing her drink onto the floor. Her expression of bleary pleasure melted into outrage.

“Hey!” she yelled, reaching for him. Frank didn’t pause. He knocked her grasping hand aside and guided Billy further into the crowd, leaving her to scream impotent abuse at their backs.

Billy grinned at him. “These places are awful,” he said. Coloured lights flashed in the mirrors of his dark eyes.

Security guards watched them from the coat check, from the bars, from behind the fence of people lining up for the washrooms. All of them armed, all of them here to protect Pryce, to protect Deshauer interest. Frank tightened his grip on Billy’s shoulder.

Another pretty boy sat behind a table at the roped off entrance to the VIP room. He gave them both a quick look, his lips pursing. A star-burst of white light splashed over the wall behind him, covering his face for less than a second before flicking out.

“You can’t go back here.” He delivered the line like a bored understudy, barely audible over the thumping pop music.

Frank leaned over the table and gave the passphrase. The guard stationed behind the twink stiffened the hang of his shoulders. A fog machine hissed like a tea kettle, firing billowing clouds of sticky, scented smoke through the laser-filled air. Billy watched a plume roll across his shoes.

The good-looking skinny guy squinted at Frank through the fog. Frank let him look into his sunglasses and said nothing else. His gaze slid over Frank’s shoulder, to where Billy stood, showing off his profile while he watched the patrons crowd the bar.

The doorman smirked. “Sterling’s, right?” He reached under the table before Frank could answer. Frank kept his hands clearly visible, kept his expression in order, while he tried to gauge the location of every single armed man in the joint.

But the twink didn’t pull out a piece. Frank felt something click under the wood and the door behind the toll keeper swung open. He sat back, giving Frank a look of sour satisfaction, and gestured to a set of stairs leading up.

“Hope your boy’s made of sterner stuff than the last pillow biter,” he said. Frank’s lip curled.

“What a racket,” Billy said. As soon as the door shut behind them, the decibel-shattering music cut to a faint rumble, a vibration of base.

It was, in every sense of the word, but Micro and Frank had been counting on that. With that party raging downstairs, they weren’t in danger of being overheard. Something Pryce had often used to his advantage.

The upstairs VIP lounge of the Big Cat felt like the classy, upscale night to the downstairs’ flashy, trashy day. There were lamps set on the velvet-topped tables, casting shadows like drawn curtains in the valleys between, creating a sense of intimacy. The only smoke in the room was the occasional plume from a lit cigar. There was a small bar stocked with bottles of whiskey, rye, brandy, and bourbon. Frank spotted the swinging double-doors that lead to the guts of the operation, the employees-only space. There were two elevators on the other wall with a guard stationed between their dull, golden gleam.

“This is more like it.” Billy’s gaze flicked around the room as the guards stepped forward to pat them down. “This is the kind of class bought by those truly without morals.” He sounded admiring.

“Keep your voice down,” Frank said as he lifted his arms and scanned the room. “You aren’t bein’ paid to talk.”

Billy shot him a look that fried the back of his head. Frank didn’t turn. He hoped Billy remembered they had roles to play.

He found their target in the corner, the table’s number positioned under the banker’s lamp, a glaring white beacon among all the brass, pine green and oak brown.

“Can you believe this guy?” Billy murmured to the guard taking his time patting him down. “You’d pay to hear me talk, wouldn’t you?”

The guard muttered something Frank didn’t catch.

Billy sniffed but didn’t resist as Frank took his arm and guided him to the table.

Pryce sat with his back to the corner, facing the entrance. He looked a little better than he did in all the grainy security footage Frank had studied. The lines of his face suggested a hard youth, but the softness on his chest and the hang of his jowls suggested he’d had a much easier time in later years. He was a big man, not unlike Frank, but Frank had spent enough time in and out of gyms to recognize the bulges under Pryce’s black jacket weren’t muscle. He wore his silver-streaked blond hair pressed flat against his bullet skull. The whites of his eyes had turned pink from years of one kind of abuse or another. He bore all the hallmarks of being a former tough made good.

Pryce looked up from his cards as they approached. His milk-blue gaze skated over Frank like he was a billboard for a product he had no interest in buying and fell on Billy. And there it stayed.

Frank cleared his throat. “Mr. Sterling?” he said.

The others seated around the table turned their heads, observing Frank with mild interest. The dealer straightened. Nobody in Frank’s immediate vision looked like they could’ve posed any real threat. Pryce’s power came from his status, which he wore the same smug flashiness he wore all his ugly rings with.

“I don’t know you,” Pryce said, voice quiet and hard.

“The Renz sent us,” Frank said evenly. “She mentioned to you that you’d be seeing a few new faces tonight.”

 Pryce grunted. “She did. She didn’t mention that she was sending me someone straight from prison. What, did you just get out on parole, son?”

“No,” Frank said.

“You look the type. You are a jailbird, right? I’ve seen a dozen guys like you before,” Pryce said.

Back at you, asshole, Frank thought.

Pryce pointed his pink eyes into Frank’s black lenses, moving his lips around as if he were chewing on what he wanted to say next. The red veins webbed across his pink cheeks squeezed with the motion. Now that he could be bothered to look at Frank, he did so with an air of amused contempt. Like Frank was a neighbour’s dog he intended to shoot for peeing on his lawn.

There were three exits, two guards stationed at every one. They would be armed.

“Take off your glasses, boy,” Pryce said, twisting a gold ring around his index finger. He’d removed his wedding band, at least.

Billy stepped forward as Frank’s fingers twitched.

“Mr. Sterling,” he purred, circling the table. “I was told I’d be comin’ to keep you company at a party. Has that been taken off the table?” He stalked close, the heels of his polished dress shoes clicking against the hardwood floor.

Frank forced himself to remain still, keep his stance relaxed, even as Billy left his reach.

Billy came to a stop in front of Pryce. “I came all the way out here. Made myself up real pretty. Don’t tell me you’re just gonna send me home.” He tilted his head to the side, squinted down at Pryce, and smiled.

That was a killing look if Frank ever saw one. Designed to strip a man down to his nerves, to bypass all his logic and appeal directly to his most base instincts. Frank knew because he’d been on the receiving end of it more than once already. He didn’t much like seeing it aimed at someone else.

What worked on Frank was guaranteed to work on a creampuff like Pryce. His expression melted into a dopey smile.

“Now, I didn’t say that,” he said, attention once again on Billy. His tongue darted out from his thin lips. “You must be Renz’s latest. Let me take a look at you, gorgeous.”

Billy leaned his hip against the edge of the table and folded his arms across his chest. “Look all you like. I just hope you’re not wasting my time.”

“That’s rude,” Pryce said, his pink eyes widening. “That’s a terrible thing to say to a man you’ve just met.” He sounded delighted. “Do you know who I am?”

Billy shrugged.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Little gutter rat all cleaned up, is that it? Got spoiled on your good looks? Where’d Renz dig you up, anyway?”

“Heaven,” Billy drawled.

“You’ve got a real attitude,” Pryce went on, raking his gaze over Billy like a third hand. “We’ll have to see if we can do something about that later.” He pushed his chair back and patted his thighs. “Sit down, sit down here with me. Do you want anything? A drink?”

“A scotch,” Billy said as he slid onto Pryce’s lap. He reached one arm around Pryce’s broad shoulders and plucked the smouldering cigar from his fingers. “A nice one,” he added before he stuck it between his lips and took a puff.

Pryce watched him, his mouth slack and his nostrils flaring. Without looking away from Billy’s lips, he snapped his fingers to catch a passing waiter’s attention.

Frank fell back and took position behind Pryce, against the wall. Pryce didn’t even look. He probably didn’t notice. He wouldn’t have noticed if Frank aimed a gun at the back of his head. Billy still had his cigar.

“You boys playin’ a little game of cards? That’s cute,” Billy said as the dealer resumed shuffling. He took another puff, exhaling a thick plume of grey smoke.

“It’s seven card stud,” Pryce said.

“Neat,” Billy said, flicking ash into an empty glass at his elbow. The server set his drink down beside Pryce’s cards. “Thanks, sweetness. I used to cheat men at cards when I was a kid. Got caught with an ace up my sleeve. They were gonna break my fingers for it but I sweet-talked ‘em. Are you winning, Mr. Sterling?”

“Oh.” Pryce ran his hand down Billy’s thigh. “I think I’m doing okay.”

Billy exhaled a derisive stream over Pryce’s shoulder, his brows furrowed. “‘Okay’. Mr. Sterling thinks he’s doing ‘okay’. I got dragged all the way to the club rat part of this town, cleaned myself up special, did my hair, put on my nicest suit, and what do I get? Hm?” Billy cast a look to the others at the table, his drink dangling from his hand. “First I get a cold shoulder treatment, which hurt both of my feelings—” Laughter rumbled from his audience. “—and now I’m hearing from your own lips that I might be spending the night with someone who took one look at me, took one look at _this_ —” He gestured at himself, at where Pryce’s hand gripped his thigh. “—and said to himself, ‘I guess I’m doing okay’. Mr. Sterling, you have got the best lookin’ person in this whole rotten city on your lap right now.” He eased a little further into Pryce’s grip, one corner of his lips tilting up in a smile.  “I think you are doing better than ‘okay’.”

Pryce’s expression hung loose in the lines of his face. He looked at Billy like a baby seeing the doctor for the first time.

“Now. I asked you not to waste my time,” Billy said as he raised his glass to his lips. “I don’t spend it with losers. You aren’t a loser. Are you, Mr. Sterling?” 

Pryce’s neighbour chortled and there was no better word for it. It was that rumbling laugh perfected by rich, fat old men the world over. “This one’s a fireplug, Herman,” he said.

It was like watching a snake charmer work. Pryce stared at Billy like it would cost him a thousand dollars to blink.

“Yeah,” Pryce said, a smile struggling its way to his face. His fingers dug into Billy’s thigh, veins straining on the back of his hands. “A real mouth on him.” He spoke absently, like no one else was listening. Billy pushed his fingers through Pryce’s hair, knocking a few silver-yellow strands loose. “I’ll have to see what we can do about that.”

Billy’s smile grew teeth.

* * *

Pryce didn’t last long. Frank couldn’t blame him. A man would have to be made from sterner stuff than Herman Pryce to stay cool facing down the barrel of Billy’s charm.

What struck Frank was that Billy didn’t have a single nice thing to say. He looked bored when Pryce spoke to him, insulted the men around the table, made disparaging comments about the quality of his scotch and the cigar he’d stolen. If he smiled at all, it was only while he said something nasty. And yet, not one of the men seemed bothered by it. They loved him for it. It really was like watching a snake charmer working in reverse.

Frank supposed couldn’t blame any of them for that, either. Billy had insulted him, cut him, and taunted him. Wasn’t he just as smitten?

Billy caught Frank’s eye only once. While the dealer began to shuffle for a new hand, and the men grumbled about their losses or crowed about their winnings—Pryce was doing much better now, a turn of luck he attributed to Billy—he flicked his gaze to Frank’s face. His long lips twitched and he shifted his position in Pryce’s lap, pressed the hand that wasn’t holding his drink against Pryce’s soft chest, and leaned in close. He whispered something into the red-veined crescent of Pryce’s ear and Frank watched the drunkard’s flush on the back of his neck turn a deeper red.

Billy watched Frank and licked his smiling lips.

“I think that’s enough for me tonight,” Pryce said, pulling his chips close with one hand. “I need to show this little filly a thing or two about manners.”

“A wilful steed always needs a firm hand,” one of the other nameless old men said. They all looked the same to Frank, either too thin or too soft. Like vultures or like pigs, except they contributed less to the environment.

“You’ll have to let us know how it goes,” another said with a leer. This one leaned more towards the vulture look.

“You’ll have to use your imagination,” Billy said smoothly as he pulled his long leg over Pryce’s lap and slid onto his feet. “Think about me while you’re fucking your mistress tonight.” He drew two fingers along the curve of the vulture’s shiny head and sauntered off.

Pryce nearly fell over himself catching up. Frank followed after.

Two men in suits fell into step behind them. Frank glanced over his shoulder. They weren’t massive slabs like the security and the bouncers, but they had the blank expressions and the purposeful stride of professionals. These would be Pryce’s personal men. Deshauer boys.

Shit. He and Micro hadn’t heard anything about a personal detail on top of the club security. He wondered if this was normal or if this was because Pryce was feeling paranoid about getting a new toy.

Pryce caught Billy by the bank of elevators. The guard Frank had spotted earlier inclined his head at Pryce and hit the call button. Billy sniffed, folded his arms, and shifted his weight.

Pryce wrapped his arm around Billy’s slim shoulders. He had to reach up to do it.

“You getting anxious, baby boy?” he asked. He curled his hand around the side of Billy’s long neck, rubbed his thumb through the razor-edge of his hairline at the back of his neck. “You were being a real brat out there before, you know that? Do you know who those men were?”

“Nope,” Billy said as he picked his nails.

Half-circles of white flesh rose where Pryce pressed his fingers into Billy’s neck. “You really need someone to show you the meaning of respect, don’t you?”

Frank couldn’t see Billy’s smirk, but he knew it was there. The same way he could tell it was raining even if he wasn’t the one getting wet.

“I know it. People show me respect all the time,” Billy said. He looked down at Pryce. “You should give it a shot.”

Pryce breathed out, his breath whistling through his nostrils. His profile had turned brick red.

The elevator arrived with a friendly chime. Billy stepped out of Pryce’s grip and inside. Pryce tore his gaze from Billy’s face when Frank stepped in after them. He scowled at Frank.

“What are you doing?” he barked.

Frank looked back impassively, tried to communicate with the visible parts of his face just how dumb that question was.

Billy leaned against the wall. “Ignore him,” he said.

“I don’t like this guy,” Pryce said as he pushed his collar open. “I don’t like the way he looks at me.”  He pulled a small key from a long golden chain around his neck, stuck it into the console, and turned. The buttons lit up and he hit the one labelled with a ‘PH’

“That’s just his face. Hey.” He nudged Pryce’s ankle with the pointed tip of his shiny black shoes. “Why are you still thinking about the guard? You’re gonna make me jealous over here.”

Pryce’s lips pulled together like he’d been chewing on lemon peel, but he turned his attention back on Billy. And then he smiled. “Am I really making you jealous, sweet thing?”

The elevator slid to a stop. Billy pushed himself upright. He grabbed Pryce’s tie like a leash and pulled him out into the hall.

Frank felt like he’d swallowed a watch battery. Something small and cold and acidic sliding down his esophagus and into his stomach. He followed.

Frank’s composure nearly slipped. He’d known Pryce had access to the topmost VIP floor—a penthouse suite that he had all to himself on certain nights—but it was another thing seeing the absurd luxury with his own eyes. Polished hardwood floors and antique furniture that probably cost more than Frank would see in his life-time. He couldn’t imagine what the point of it all was. It’s only real value was its privacy.

Pryce reclaimed the lead and took Billy to a door among a row of identical-looking doors. He opened it, grabbed Billy’s arm, and threw him inside.

“Lesson one,” Frank heard Pryce say as the door began to swing shut.

Frank stomped forward, an expensive throw-rug curling under his heel, the acid in his stomach churning and bubbling like a high school science experiment. He got there in time to see a slice of the scene, to see Billy on the ground, long legs spread, half-upright on his elbows, staring up at Pryce with an unreadable expression.

“You show your betters proper respect,” Pryce said. Frank caught the door before it could shut.

“Excuse me,” he ground out. “You can’t—“

Pryce whipped around and shoved his weight onto the door. Frank stumbled back, caught off guard.

“I can do,” Pryce hissed, his Valentine pink eyes bulging where he pressed his face against the door, “whatever I want.”

Frank’s arms trembled as he held the door. Pryce’s only advantage against Frank was the surprise. Pryce was a big, heavy man but Frank would wager that he was bigger, heavier, and—more importantly—a lot meaner.

A hand fell on his shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” a friendly voice said. “Why don’t you take it easy?”

“Mr. Sterling’s not gonna do anything anyone’s gonna regret,” another said. “So you shouldn’t either.”

Frank didn’t look away from Pryce’s fire truck-red face. He knew without looking that the Deshauer boys he’d spotted downstairs had followed them.

Frank calculated his odds. He had no weapons, his hands were occupied, and if he set things off now, they might never get what they wanted from Pryce. Frank didn’t have to be a gambler to know when he’d drawn a bad hand. His nostrils flared.

“Yeah.” A hand snaked around Pryce’s shaking arm. Billy appeared over his shoulder, looking as immaculate and put-together as he had the moment he’d stepped into the club. “You’re cramping our style. Go and play with those nice boys,” he said. “And leave us to have our fun.”

Pryce’s grin could’ve been grounds for murder, but Frank barely noticed. Billy smiled at him, his lashes lowered over his eyes, shading them from the light; twin flat, black pools stared at Frank from that angel face.

Frank let go. He felt so suddenly cold he thought he half expected his breath to emerge in a stream of vapour. The door clicked shut.

Frank rubbed the tips of his fingers together, breathing hard. The hand at his shoulder gave him a squeeze and a friendly shake.

“Seriously, don’t worry about them,” the guy said. “Mr. Sterling can get intense but he can control himself.”

“Right,” Frank said, only half-hearing them. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“What?”

Frank shook himself. He looked over his shoulder, into the face of one of the guys he’d spotted downstairs. The other stood a few feet away, looking alert but a little awkward.

“Sorry,” Frank said. He tried to smile. “It’s just my job, you know?”

“Eh, I know how it is. But don’t worry, we won’t rat you out to the Renz.” The guy smiled back. “Hey, us and a couple of the other guys are gonna play a few hands in the employees’ office. You in?”

Frank made himself relax.

“Hell yeah,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've sent me a message on the excellent social media platform, tumblr dot com (where i'm at nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com), i have almost certainly not received it because tumblr is a poorly designed website. apologies for not responding! it's not because i'm ignoring you it's because tumblr is bad.
> 
> 'The Big Cat' gets its name from the song 'Big Cat' by Wild Beasts.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pryce gets his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you as always to [jun/ssealdog](http://sealdog.tumblr.com) for the fantastic beta!!!

Frank played a few hands of cards with four toughs: the two Deshauer stooges who’d found him upstairs and the two guards who were waiting for them in the backroom. Things were winding down out there, they’d told Frank. They didn’t have to babysit a bunch of old rich assholes right at that moment. They could afford to take some time to themselves. Frank smiled and nodded, aiming to look as simple as possible. He had a feeling they were on hand to ensure he didn’t disturb Pryce.

After their second hand, Frank brought out his flask and asked the others if they minded. When they indicated they didn’t, Frank took a drink. One of them—a guard named Louis—watched Frank drink with poorly-concealed envy. Frank wiped his lips with the back of his hand and offered the flask.

“I shouldn’t,” Louis said, but he did.

By the end of the third hand, they all did. One of the guards—Max—went out for a minute and returned with a bottle of Tromba. They all cheered. Frank watched the Deshauers from the corner of his eye. They looked relaxed, both a little pink in the face. One—named Jules—had stripped out of his jacket. The other—Thom with an ‘h’—kept tugging at his tie like a nervous actor in community theatre. He pulled it looser with each new card he was dealt, until it’d unwound around his fingers.

They drank. Time passed. Frank started talking louder and his gestures got sloppier. He thought about Billy until his face grew warm. He thought about the last time he’d seen Billy in a hotel room and his face grew hot. He made a point of calling Max by Jules’ name, and Jules by his fourth grade teacher’s name. He started losing hands. He cursed like a petulant child when he did, but laughed along with the others.

The other guys—Max, Jules, Thom with an ‘h’, and Louis—started to get looser too. Louis had a donkey laugh. Max tapped the edge of the table and drank every time he made a bet. Jules hummed along to classical music until Thom told him to shut the fuck up. Then Thom pulled out his phone and made them listen to the music his brother was making.

“Electronica shit,” Frank said with a dismissive sniff.

“Kids love this shit,” Thom insisted.

“Your brother’s in his 40s, Thom,” Max said. “The fuck’s he doin’, fuckin’ around with a keyboard and an Apple laptop? He should be getting a real job before his wife makes their separation official.”

“You should fuck his wife,” Louis said.

“I will not fuck my sister-in-law. What’s the matter with you?” Thom huffed and raised the bet.

Max went out again after the fifth hand and returned a few minutes later with a slight sniff and a wild, glassy look in his eyes that Frank pretended not to notice.

They finished their sixth hand almost an hour after they sat down. Frank checked his watch and frowned. He mumbled something about needing to piss and pushed his chair back.

“I’ll join you,” Thom said, jostling the table with his knee as he stood.

“We a buncha girls now? I don’t need an escort to the ladies’, but thanks all the same,” Frank said.

“Nah, nah, I gotta go too. I gotta—whoa.” Thom stumbled on his way to the door. Frank caught him before he could fall. “Whoa,” he repeated. “My head. I think I had too much.”

“Lightweight,” Frank said, hoisting him upright. “Come on, if you’re so fixed on following me to the can.”

* * *

There were two different kinds of wolves, as ten-year-old Frank would’ve told anyone who’d asked him. Actually, he would’ve said, there were dozens of different kinds of wolves, but there’s really only two important kinds.

There were real wolves, who lived all over the world, who raised families in packs, who showed remarkable intelligence and cunning, the ancestors of our most beloved companions. The ones in the zoo or in the nature documentaries.

And then there were the wolves who lived in stories.

There were a lot of stories about boys who were raised by wolves. They would grow up strong and fast and clever. They would do great things, not in spite of their upbringing, but because of it.

Two boys were suckled by a she-wolf. They were the sons of the god of war but he left them, or maybe he never even knew about them in the first place. They were thrown into a river and dragged to shore by a wolf. They grew up strong and fast and clever. They became soldiers, and they killed people with teeth made of iron. They bested enemy after enemy until there were none left, until they only had each other, so they fought each other. One killed the other, and founded a city which became an empire.

There was barely any room in that story for the wolf mother. Frank used to wonder why she was in it at all. She didn’t even have a name. Did she know what became of her sons? Would she have been disappointed of what they became? Would she have stopped them? A real wolf might’ve mourned a dead pup, but those who lived in stories…

A boy went missing and a wolf found him in the jungle. The wolf pack raised him until he was strong and fast and clever. He had learned the way of the jungle. He could’ve become the king, the strongest animal for miles around, but instead civilization found him. He walked away from his kingdom before it could even begin, to live a humble life as a hunter in a village.

Nothing from the wolf mother there, either. Did she miss her son? Was she disappointed in his choices? Would she have allowed him to leave?

When Frank was small he looked at his parents and their slow hands and their heavy footfalls and wondered if maybe he had been raised by wolves. If his human mother hadn’t actually carried him in her belly like she’d said, but instead found him in a forest clearing and decided to lie to him about it, to try and keep him safe. To keep him tame.

It began as a story in his head but the more details he poured into it—it was May when she found him, it’d been raining all day and the ground was heavy with new growth, his mother found him in a bed of moss, in the hollow of a tree—the more real it felt to him. He could close his eyes at night and smell the wet earth, could feel the soft moss, could hear rain whisper from the canopy.

Nothing really happened to break him from the delusion. It was just a story he told himself before he fell asleep. Eventually he forgot all about it. He grew out of the wolf phase, got into his military phase. The wolves he used to doodle in the margins of his textbooks became replaced with assault rifles, tanks and fighter jets.

Frank Castle would never stop trying to be the strongest, the fastest, the cleverest. The biggest and meanest around. Not even when he grew up, got into worse trouble, met with people who tried to prove to him that they were stronger and meaner.

If you had to be raised by wolves, the fictional kind was the way to go. Get yourself into a story instead. The real world would never be as kind. Because kids raised by real wolves didn’t do half as well.

Kids raised by real wolves weren’t that clever and they weren’t that strong. They were wild, feral. Mowgli could walk from the shores of the river, away from his mother, Raksha (she, at least, got a name), and right into the open palm of civilization without missing a step. A real life Mowgli wouldn’t have been able to walk at all. He would’ve bit any hand that tried to feed him.

They were like werewolves who never learned to change into their other skin. Experts said there would be no discovery of civilization for these children. The love of a real wolf mother wasn’t a language humans could understand, so those children huddled into themselves.

Frank read about them in the library one day out of nostalgic interest. He didn’t want to believe that none of the wolf-children could live in society. Werewolves changed back, didn’t they? Maybe one had made it through. Maybe one learned how to wear the human skin without smothering the wolf.

* * *

“She _is_ gonna divorce him,” Thom said as they made their way through the back halls.

“Who?” Frank asked.

“My brother,” Thom said, lowering his voice as he led Frank back into the gambling parlour.

The lights had come down since they’d left, Frank noted, and the place had almost completely cleared out. Their dealer had vanished, and so had some of the guards. Their table was empty and Frank couldn’t see through the shadows and smoke where the old pigs and vultures had gone.

A lot of the pretty boys were gone, too. Frank hadn’t realised that he’d even noticed them until he noticed them missing. Pretty boys in white shirts and black vests, with delicate, smooth hands. Pretty boys with long hair, short hair, curly hair, thick hair, fine hair, no hair. Pretty boys with gleaming eyes and gleaming teeth in perfect crescent smiles. They’d walked between the tables like Oberon’s finest come to steal them all away, speaking sweetly, serving drinks, batting their blue, green, grey, brown eyes. Frank hadn’t even seen them.

Except he had, or part of him had. Frank’s brow wrinkled. Usually that was the only part of him, especially during a job.

He thought of Billy, his black eyes like buttons set under his eyelids, the curl of his smile, long arms wrapped around Pryce like a black snake about to start squeezing.

“My brother’s gonna fuck up his marriage,” Thom said.

They skirted the room, careful not to disturb anyone left behind. Frank could feel the vibration of the dance floor through his feet.

“That’s a shame,” Frank said.

“I keep tellin’ him to pay attention to her,” Thom went on as they entered the men’s room. “You know? He keeps saying he doesn’t know what she wants but she keeps tellin’ him what she wants and he keeps not listenin’. Women can be confusing, I get it, but she’s not speaking a different language.” He stepped up to the urinal and unzipped. Thom was the kind of guy who stared aggressively forward, as if he were memorizing the graffiti written on the wall.

“It can be hard for a guy to put his ego aside, I guess,” Frank said, taking advantage of Thom’s narrow vision. Thom’s jacket swayed open, revealing his shoulder holster. The butt of a nine mil knocked against the inside of his armpit.

“That’s how guys end up alone,” Thom said with a sigh. “If I had a girl like Leola… Well. I wouldn’t have fucked it up and started making electronica music. You ever love anyone, Pete?”

There was a utility closet at the other end of the room. “Me?” Frank turned his gaze to the front. “Once.”

“Was it nice? Was she nice?” Thom asked, swaying on his feet. He looked ready to collapse.

Frank flicked his gaze to the ceiling. “I was young,” he said, zipping up. “It could’ve been nicer.”

Thom nodded, looking miserable. “My brother’s gonna live in my basement.”

“You have a basement?” Frank asked and swung his arm.

Thom’s answer escaped as a sigh. He folded up on the ground. Frank shook out his hand.

He wouldn’t be down long. Frank pulled Thom’s gun from his holster. He dragged his unconscious body across the room and stuffed him into the closet, upright beside the mop and cleaning products. Frank knocked the knob with the butt of Thom’s gun until it bent. A weak lock-job, but Frank intended to finish this quickly.

It’d been one hour and six minutes since he last saw Billy.

No one noticed that two men had gone into the back hall and only one emerged. Frank strode through the parlour, head high, sunglasses back in place, his heart a loud but steady rhythm in his chest. He stalked to the bank of elevators, Thom’s little key warm in the palm of his hand. He stepped inside, unlocked the buttons, and hit the one labelled ‘3’.

One hour and seven minutes.

* * *

The elevator chimed politely as Frank arrived, the sound like a butler might make if he had a bell instead of a tongue. The penthouse was quiet, all the doors shut up tight. Small chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their lights dimmed, casting shards of translucent white along the walls and the carpeted floor.

Frank’s footfalls were muffled. He counted the doors. There was no sound coming from any of the rooms. Not a sigh, not a moan, not the creak of a bedspring. Silent as the inside of a coffin.

The elevator chimed once more.

Frank wheeled around, gun drawn. The doors split open and Frank’s three remaining card mates arrived with two new friends in tow. Frank fired.

One blinked hard, stumbled forward, red stain spreading across his belly. He spilled onto the floor with barely a sound, opened his mouth, blinked a few more times, and then stopped.

The four remaining men stared in disbelief. Frank took advantage.

The gun fired and the second man died, head snapped back and a fresh hole in his head like a third eye.

The three still breathing smartened up. They were slow to draw, clumsy with the booze Frank had mostly pretended to drink. What little he’d consumed had burned away, leaving nothing but fumes in his sinuses.

Frank saw his window closing as they started to get their feet under them. He squeezed the trigger but his gun clicked—jammed. He cursed his bad luck, closed the distance with a bellow and tackled Louis into Max, who had hidden behind his pal for cover while he fumbled with his gun, and knocked them both to the ground. He knocked the gun from Louis’ hand, grabbed his chin and bounced his head on the floor. Max tried to wriggle out from beneath their combined weight, his breath wheezing from his squeezed lungs.

The third guy had taken cover behind a massive sideboard, pinned himself between the heavy piece and the wall. He fired his gun but all that adrenalin and stress chemicals had made his tendons and muscles tense, made his hands shake, and he was just the kind of dumb asshole who shot with one hand instead of two. The bullet sent up splinters from the once-pristine wooden floor.

Frank shot Louis’ gun with one hand too, the other still squeezing Louis’ throat, and fired twice, a two-beat rhythm that knocked the nameless idiot down with two brand new holes in his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” Max wheezed. He kicked at the bodies on top of him, managed to wriggle one arm loose and knocked his closed fist against Frank’s head. It was a clumsy hit but it got Frank at his temple and Max wasn’t weak.

He got him a second time before Frank could turn his gun on him and it was enough to knock a screw loose, put stars flashing behind Frank’s eyes. Frank tipped sideways by an inch, his grip slackening, and both men under him took advantage of the lapse.

Louis drew in a rattling breath, bent his leg between them and kicked Frank in the chest. Max got himself loose at last, picked his gun up from where he’d dropped it and levelled it on Frank. He didn’t even bother to shout a warning, or try to get Frank to surrender—he just pulled the trigger.

It would’ve been lights out for Frank if he’d been slower and dumber. As it was, he managed to scramble out of the way, claiming cover with the still-cooling body of the nameless goon slouched on the floor. He felt his arm burn, a straight line of fire over his bicep, felt it open up over his jacket.

He lunged for the elevator, the sound of another man’s gun firing ringing in his ears as Max squeezed the trigger. He landed hard on the ground, rattling the car, rolled and came up with his probably still-jammed gun drawn, ready to spend what might’ve been the last minutes of his life fighting.

Only to find most of Louis on the floor, the rest of him sprayed out against the wall. Max slumped against the wall, blood pouring from his guppy gaping mouth, spreading across his bent stomach. He looked at Frank—looked at him like Frank had hurt his feelings.

Frank stared back. He got to his feet.

Billy stood at the other end of the room, twin plumes of smoke curling from the lit cigar in his mouth and from the gun in his hand. He’d stripped out of his jacket, his tie, his vest, and his pants. He wore his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a pair of too-bright turquoise latex gloves. He still had his socks on, Frank noted.

Blood on his gloved hands, up his arms, splattered on his bare calves.

Billy pulled the cigar from his mouth. “That,” he said, eyes glittering under the chandelier. “Was somethin’.” 

Frank said nothing back. He breathed hard, beyond words, blood singing with violence, with another day stolen from the god of death, with all his body’s wants. He looked at Billy’s pale, hard thighs, at the shirt garters wrapped around them, and the peek of what must’ve been red boxer briefs between the parted front of his shirt, and stalked forward.

He took Billy in his arms, fisted his hand into the neat, styled hair at the back of his head, and crushed their lips together.

The response was immediate. Billy’s arms slithered around his shoulders, the hand with the cigar sliding down Frank’s back, gripping at the fabric of his jacket, the cold press of metal at the back of Frank’s neck. Frank loosened his grip on Billy’s hair, slipped his hand down to cradle the back of his skull. He coaxed Billy open with his tongue and groaned, loud and without an inch of shame, when Billy yielded to him.

Billy’s hand got between them, lodged against Frank’s chest. He pushed Frank back.

“Focus,” he said, panting softly. “We still got…” He jerked his head towards the partially opened door behind them.

Frank had a million arguments to that, or maybe just one argument repeated a million times, but he had no words to articulate it with. He growled.

Billy huffed. He knocked Frank lightly on the shoulder with the butt of his gun and pulled himself away. He stuck his cigar back into his mouth. “We got a job to do, sugar. Remember?”

Frank did. He shook the fog of blood lust off with a toss of his head and a hard push of breath through his nose. He sniffed, nodded, and followed Billy into the hotel room.

The curtains were drawn across the windows, every last one of them. All the lights were out, save for the lamp on the side table, which emitted a warm yellow light that looked red where it fell on the bed.

Blood soaked the bed. It soaked the body of the man tied to the bed, pools of it, shining like ruby mirrors. Frank examined Pryce without feeling as Billy collected his clothing from where he’d folded it over the back of an armchair.

“He gave up the names,” Billy said as he pulled on his slacks, belt jingling. “Everyone he could think of. I got a recording for you.”

“Send it to Micro,” Frank said.

Black and red burn marks the size and shape of dimes peppered Pryce’s soft, stretched out arms and legs. His left calf was soaked in blood, from a cut Billy must’ve placed just under the kneecap. There were other cuts on his chest, little nicks under his sagging breasts, marked like a game of cat-scratch X’s and O’s over his heart. His crotch was completely soaked, almost black. Frank could only guess what Billy had done there.

That might’ve been the killing wound. Frank couldn’t say what did Pryce in in the end.

Staring down at the deflated corpse of Captain Herman Pryce, knowing that his last hour on earth had been a slice of hell, Frank felt the first stirrings of regret. There were no cameras in these rooms. The kind of business Big Cat specialised in demanded it keep its clients’ privacy.

“C’mon,” Billy said, slapping Frank’s arm. “People are gonna notice those bodies sooner or later.”

Frank didn’t reply. Billy frowned at him. He’d cleaned up, peeled off his gloves, wiped the blood off his face and his arms, but Frank could still smell it on him.

“Heel toe, come on,” Billy said.

Frank took his chin in one paw and kissed him. Billy made a noise of complaint, which turned into a soft moan.

“We’re alone up here,” Frank said giving Billy the barest inch of space between them, his fingers tracing his stubble. “We got time.”

“Not much,” Billy said, sounding winded. He slapped Frank’s chest again. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I wanted to see it,” Frank said and crushed his lips against Billy’s. He opened him up, dragged his nails gently over the stubble on Billy’s neck. “I wanted to watch you,” he said, between kisses, walking them backwards. Billy groaned, slumping his weight into Frank. “I wanted to see what you looked like as you made him scream. You made him pay for hurting you. Didn’t you, baby? For talking that way about you? Who the fuck—“ Billy grunted as his back hit the wall, Frank’s hands under his thighs, lifting him off the ground. “—did he think he was? Looking at you like that. Touching you.”

Frank rolled his hips, grinding them together. Billy’s head knocked against the wall, his legs wrapping around Frank’s waist, his mouth falling open, hands gripping Frank’s jacket.

“I hope you made him suffer,” Frank growled. “He didn’t even ask before he put his hands on you.”

Billy laughed, breathless. “You haven’t either,” he said. He closed his eyes as Frank mouthed at his throat. “Fuck. Three dead men in less than ten seconds. They didn’t know—“ Billy’s voice hitched as Frank bit him. “—didn’t know what hit ‘em. I’m glad I got to see it. Shit, _Frankie_ ,” he hissed. His fingers tangled into Frank’s curls as he rolled his hips against Frank’s.

He yanked Frank’s head back, met his outraged gaze with a lazy smile.

“Get me out of here,” he said. “Someplace private. With fewer dead bodies.”

* * *

They left like professionals. Frank wore his sunglasses. Billy wore his superior attitude. He’d reapplied his cologne before they left. He had a little glass bottle, smaller than his pinkie, stored in his inside pocket. He dabbed the inside of his wrists and behind his ears, the way women did. Frank was weak, too weak to resist leaning in close to catch the scent at its strongest.

Billy caught his face with his palm and pushed him back. Frank went, rocking on his heels.

“It’ll take a few minutes, you caveman,” he said. “It’s gotta blend with my natural chemistry.”

“You smell just fine,” Frank said. Like blood, like cigar smoke and nice scotch, like the last gasp of a dying man.

Billy turned heads even in the dark of the club but Frank wasn’t worried. Not a single one of them looked to be in any shape to give a testimony. Judging by the heave of the crowd, by the slack looks on their faces, they wouldn’t have been able to recognize their own reflection in a mirror. The guys Pryce had hobnobbed with upstairs would keep their noses and their reputations out of a messy police investigation. Micro would take care of the footage. He’d take care of everything.

The black town car lounged on the other side of the street, waiting as patiently as a panther in the long grass. It was late. People had gotten drunker, their outfits less put-together, their hair messier. A woman sat on the curb, her bare feet in the dry gutter, with her friends standing around her. Two of them had her arms in their hands, trying to pull her to her feet. People darted into the road, where cars rumbled and roared past, each one of them trying to pick up speed and show off their stuff. A black Suzuki with fat tires, chrome plates, and its underbelly lit up purple blared its horn at Frank as he led Billy across the street without looking. Frank still didn’t look, not even when the car revved its engine and roared past, the driver yelling obscenities out the window.

“I hate this _fucking_ neighbourhood,” Billy said, his jaw tight. His gaze darted from lit-up building to club to strip joint along the street, never settling on any one thing. His hands were clenched into tight fists.

“Get me the hell out of here,” he said, his usual purr sounding ragged.

Frank put his hand against the small of his back, popped the passenger side door open, and guided him inside.

There were hotels everywhere but Frank knew they couldn’t stay in the area. Sirens wailed in the distance.

Frank ran through his mental inventory of places to fuck in this town. All the nice hotels were too close to the scene of their recent massacre to be viable. The other nice hotels were out by the airport, almost an hour’s drive out of the main part of the city.

He wouldn’t last that long. Every time he made the mistake of looking over at Billy, he was hit with the urge to pull over and just take him. Pull his jacket down, yank his vest open, shove his shirt out of his trousers and just get him as naked as possible in as little time as possible. Get his hands on his skin, on those black and grey blooms. He wanted to hear Billy moan. He would’ve emptied his savings account right then and there just to hear Billy say his name, just once.

Judging by the way Billy kept his arms crossed over his chest, kept bouncing his knee and flexing his jaw, he wasn’t going to survive much longer either. Frank thought about taking Billy home.

In the end, they didn’t even make it that far.

A train rumbled on the tracks overhead, the last subway before the transit’s three hour nightly shut-down. They were parked under a bridge, someplace private and mostly empty of the city’s homeless population. Steam curled from grates set into the cracked and damaged pavement. At some point, it’d started to rain.

All of this was lost on Frank. He had Billy furrowed under him in the back seat, the sharp press of his knees against his ribs, his hands clawing at his back, panting breath hot on his face.

They’d done their best to get naked—Frank managed to unbutton most of Billy’s clothes and pull his pants off, and Billy had managed to pop Frank’s shirt open and shove his jacket out of the way—but they were only human, and life was too short. Frank pushed Billy down, squeezed a measure of the lube Billy had the genius foresight to steal from Pryce’s death room onto his fingers, opened Billy up as quickly and efficiently as he possibly could, all while Billy growled in his ear for him to _hurry up goddammit_.

 _Yessir_ , Frank whispered back, breathless and fond. He kissed Billy before he could snarl anything else.

Billy’s head fell back against the leather seat, stretching his pale neck out like an invitation. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.” His nails dug into Frank’s back, slipping a little against his sweat-slick skin. His other hand slapped against the door behind his head as he curled up to meet Frank’s thrusts. “Yes, yes, fuck, perfect—fuck, _fuck_ , Frankie—.” His voice twisted, tightening, his knees digging into Frank’s sides, his body clenching down, tensing, curling together like a spring close to its breaking point.

Frank cursed. He grabbed Billy’s hips and bent him further in half, fucking himself in deeper. Billy’s lashes fluttered, his eyes rolling back, his mouth falling slack. Something animal inside Frank drove him forward, to press his face against that long, exposed neck, his nostrils filling with the scent of sweat, and skin, and blood, take his soft flesh between his teeth and bite down hard enough to hurt, hard enough to bruise. Billy screamed.

After.

Billy retreated to the other side of the car, his discarded clothes strewn around him like pieces of a nest he’d lost interest in assembling. He lay against the door, his head resting against the window, long legs sprawled across the back seat. Frank sat on the other side, his own legs stretched out across the floor of the car, one of Billy’s bare feet in his lap. He drew his thumb across the arch and breathed out a stream of vapour.

“You an’ that stupid fuckin’ thing,” Billy said, his voice as stretched and soft as the rest of him, all that earlier tension drained away. “You know how dumb you look right now? Kids vape.”

Frank shrugged. His shirt hung open, his jacket long gone—lost somewhere in the front seat, where Billy had thrown it. He’d pulled his pants up but hadn’t bothered to go beyond that. Zipping and buttoning and buckling all felt like too much work.

“You look stupid,” Billy said.

“You look good,” Frank said, smiling through a new cloud.

Billy did. Stretched out like a hedonistic prince, with his clothes in disarray, so obviously pulled apart by desperate, greedy hands. Strands of long hair falling into his eyes, over his forehead. Looking exactly like a man who’d just been fucked within an inch of his life.

Wordlessly, Frank held his device out to Billy. After a moment’s hesitation, Billy took it.

“You aren’t tellin’ me anything I don’t know,” he said with a sniff. He examined the rig with a slight frown wrinkling his forehead.

Jesus, he was so cute. “You push and hold the button on the side,” Frank said, which he suspected was something Billy didn’t know. “Inhale through the spout at the top. My last name’s Castle.” With both hands now free, he took Billy’s foot further into his lap. He dug his thumbs into the curved arch and drew them down. “I got my first tattoo when I was fourteen years old. I used a fake ID that said I was twenty years old and that my name was Diego… Arrozo, I think. It was my first fake ID—no. Second. I lost the first one four months before when I broke a dude’s arm at a bar.”

Billy squinted at him through a thinning plume of blue-grey smoke. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“I’m telling you some things you don’t know,” Frank said with a grin. Billy rolled his eyes and took another hit. “Let’s see…” Frank worked his fingers into the meat of Billy’s foot while he thought. “The first time I got in trouble with the cops, I was thirteen. They caught me shoplifting a bottle of perfume from Walmart. This frosted, peach-shaped bottle. The stuff smelled like candied flowers.”

“I’m sure it would’ve been real nice on you,” Billy said.

Rain whispered against the roof, formed on the windows like glass beads. The only light outside came from a tall LED sign for a shipping company, splashing blue and white onto the ground, and into the car. Frank could see a slice of Billy’s face, blue light on his pale skin, on the flat blade of his nose, around his brow, over the sharp line of his cheek, jaw, down his neck and shoulder, and over his lips, tracing like a jealous lover the paths Frank had taken earlier with his hands and his mouth.

“It was for my girlfriend,” Frank said. He always found it hard not to stare at Billy. The gentle hum of warm static in his head, in his limbs, made it seem a lot harder than usual.

Billy’s smile touched the blue-kissed half of his face. “Lucky her.”

Frank shrugged. He rubbed circles into the flat expanse of Billy’s foot. “I tried to be good to her.”

“I bet. I’m thinking,” Billy said, settling back and stretching his legs. “That you were a real little gentleman to her. Bet you stole all kinds of things for her. I bet she was pretty.” He set his other foot in Frank’s lap. He smiled at Frank. “I bet she had reeeeal long legs.”

“She did,” Frank confirmed, taking the other foot in his hands.

“Was she nice?” Billy asked, tipping his head to the side. “Did she wear ribbons in her hair? Was she blonde? Did she have sun-kissed skin, rosy cheeks, and sweetheart lips? Was she good to _you_ , Frankie-boy?”

Frank hummed as he worked out a new batch of knots. “She had short hair. Pierced lip. A right hook that could flatten a bull.” He could hear the wistfulness in his own voice. “She was two years older than me. Mean as a cat, but she liked me. She was as good to me as she could be. I tried to be good for her. Better than good.”

“You said that already.” Billy watched Frank through his lashes. He tapped the edge of the vape against his lower lip but didn’t take another hit. “Mean, huh. You know, I’m beginning to think you have a type.”

Frank smiled and said nothing in his defense. He knew damn well that he did.

“Was she your first?” Billy asked. Frank shook his head. “Tell me about your first.”

First could mean a lot of things, as far as Frank was concerned. In a more sober state of mind, he might’ve followed where Billy was trying to lead them, but an image of golden light shining through long, black hair, a pair of blue eyes wrinkled with a smile so bright it would inspire jealousy in the gods of myth because they were always getting bent out of shape about whatever. A delicate hand on his face, his chest. The way she touched him, like she was afraid he was the one who might break.

Suppose she’d been right, in the end.

Billy shifted. Frank could just see his eyes narrowing by the way the light on his brow moved. Frank realised he’d been quiet too long. Worse, he’d stopped moving his fingers.

“I don’t remember much about it, really,” Frank said, shaking himself free of the phantoms. He drew in a breath and resumed his work. “I was sixteen and pretty drunk. She was my friend’s cousin or something. We met at a party. She stole a bottle of, uh. That raspberry liqueur stuff from the liquor cabinet. We drank it together in the basement. She was pissed at her boyfriend and thought I was cute. She liked my nose.”

“I like your nose,” Billy said. Frank looked up but Billy had turned away, to face the windshield, gifting Frank with the view of his profile. Billy’s own nose was straight and unbroken, untouched by violence. Frank felt sentimental about that.

“So, it wasn’t your sweetheart with the lip ring,” Billy said. “What happened to her? What happened to your boyhood romance, Frank?”

“It didn’t work out,” Frank said. “She liked me but she liked someone else more. We split.”

“She broke your heart,” Billy said. Frank thought he might’ve been smiling still.

“At the time, I thought she had,” Frank said. “Now I know better.”

Billy turned to face Frank, his eyebrows a high arch of soft blue light and shadow.

“Oh?” he nudged Frank’s stomach gently with the flat of his foot. “You’ve had some experience with real heartbreak, have you? Who was she? Who could get through that barrel chest of yours?”

Frank looked down at Billy’s feet. They were just as long, just as well-looked after as the rest of him. Heels soft with lotion, nails trimmed and filed. He ran his thumb under his long toes, his lips lifting when he felt them twitch.

Long, dark hair in the golden light of a perfect summer afternoon. Sun dress blowing in the wind, blue skirt blooming like some exotic flower. The memory of her like a stone he’d swallowed, sitting heavy and cold behind his ribs.

“It was a long time ago,” Frank said. He curled his hand around Billy’s ankle. He could almost get his fingers all the way around. “I was twenty. She was eighteen. We dated for four years. I thought I was gonna marry her.”

Part of him still did. Part of him never stopped being twenty, never left that park where he’d sat with his beat-up pawn shop guitar in his lap, looking up to see the most beautiful person in the world looking down at him with a smile quirking her lips.

Billy took another hit, the hiss of releasing steam filling the small space between them. “What happened?” he asked, breathing out twin streams through his nose.

“I was a punk,” Frank said. “Good for nothin’ but trouble. Her family hated me. We did our best. I tried to be good to her, but I wasn’t good for anyone. I got her in trouble.” Frank traced his thumb over the knot of Billy’s ankle. “She ripped my heart apart.”

“That’s rough,” Billy said, without much feeling.

“Shit.” Frank laughed, brief and soft. “I thought I was gonna die. I never loved anyone as much as I loved her.”

Billy said nothing. When Frank looked up, he saw Billy watching him, the cylinder half-raised to his lips, unmoving.

“What about you?” Frank asked. “Who was your first love?”

Billy blinked and unfroze. He sniffed, pulled his legs back, and tossed the rig to Frank.

“You’re lookin’ at him,” he said, pulling his slacks back up, his belt buckle jingling. “Get us back to the main road, will you?”

“You want me to take you home?” Frank asked, trying not to sound as disappointed as he felt.

“Main road, I said. I’ll take myself home, thanks.” The door clicked open, bringing in a shock of cold air that smelled like wet asphalt and old trash. Billy slipped outside and slammed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frank's wolf stories are of course Romulus and Remus and The Jungle Book. Maybe the Romulus and Remus' wolf-mom has a name, but I sure couldn't find it. It seems like a strange oversight. The raspberry liqueur Frank loses his virginity to is called Chambord. 
> 
> Billy's outfit is a reference to [this wonderful artwork](http://lelelego.tumblr.com/post/170986633722/%E1%B4%9B%CA%9C%E1%B4%87%CA%80%E1%B4%87s-%CA%99%CA%9F%E1%B4%8F%E1%B4%8F%E1%B4%85-%E1%B4%8F%C9%B4-%E1%B4%9B%CA%9C%E1%B4%87-%E1%B4%8D%E1%B4%8F%E1%B4%8F%C9%B4-%E1%B4%9B%E1%B4%8F%C9%B4%C9%AA%C9%A2%CA%9C%E1%B4%9B-%E1%B4%85%E1%B4%8F-%CA%8F%E1%B4%8F%E1%B4%9C-%E1%B4%8B%C9%B4%E1%B4%8F%E1%B4%A1-%E1%B4%A1%CA%9C%E1%B4%8F) by lelelego.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank's name keeps finding its way to the top of Billy's recent contacts list. Probably nothing to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jun/ssealdog did another fantastic job betaing even though he was busy all weekend, he made time for this. :") Thank you, Jun!!
> 
> Bad news, gang: next week's chapter will be late as I'm travelling for a pal's wedding. I'll either have it up Monday evening or Tuesday morning. Apologies for the delay but it's unavoidable. I appreciate your patience!

“Hey—! What are you—? What the FUCK? Where are you going?”

Billy pinched his lips tightly together. He pulled his jeans up over his hips with one hand while struggling to put his other arm through the appropriate hole of his shirt.

“What the fuck, Billy?” a man’s voice gasped.

Billy snatched his jacket from where he’d tossed it in the mistaken belief that this hook-up would be worth getting dust on the leather. He shoved his hair back from his face as he pulled his phone out from his back pocket.

The guy he’d left on the bed—Marten or Marcus or whatever—struggled his way out from under the Ikea-brand duvet, kicking his legs out.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he demanded, his red hair falling over his redder face. Billy swiped his screen to life with his thumb as he shouldered his jacket on and made for the door. “We were in the middle of something!”

God, that kind of petulant outrage wasn’t a good look on anyone. Marten wore it worse than most.

“ _You_ were in the middle of something,” Billy said, reaching for the knob. “And by all means, don’t let me stop you from finishing. God knows you wouldn’t’ve if I’d stayed.” He turned the handle and walked out.

“Whore!” Was Marten’s parting shot, lobbed at Billy’s back as the door slammed behind him.

The cool night air didn’t do anything for the anger still burning behind Billy’s eyes, although a few hard breaths did get his temper back under control. Fuck, but he hated pricks like Marten. The kind of guy who treated sex as if it were a race, where the first person to cross the finish line won. And, to add insult to a mediocre performance, Marten had been into that amateur dom bullshit.

That’d been the last straw, which was a testament to just how badly Billy had been craving dick. He’d been willing to put up with Marten’s fumbling because he had a nice cock and, with careful instruction, he could use it properly. But then, in the middle of what could’ve been a decent, if not fantastic, hook-up, he went and grabbed a handful of Billy’s hair and told him to call him _daddy_. That put a bullet in the night.

Billy stood on the corner, one hand jammed in his coat pocket, while he scowled at his screen. His phone had blown up with its usual lonely hearts looking for a good time. Plenty of women, because most of his contacts were women. It soothed his ego, somewhat, to see them clamouring for him.

A gaggle of undergrads swept past, their faces red with their first taste of legal drinking. A few heads turned and voices lowered into quiet whispers.

Billy ignored them. He took in another long breath and scrolled through his texts.

He could get a woman, he supposed. It felt a bit like ordering Thai food when he had his heart set on Italian, though, and he couldn’t bring himself to get excited about the prospect. He leaned back onto his heels, knocked his head lightly against the wall of the building behind him. The whole reason he’d given Marten another shot was because he wasn’t in the mood to put in work.

And, not to put too fine a point on it, the women in Billy’s contacts were work. There were probably women out there that weren’t—but they weren’t the kind of people Billy usually liked. The ones Billy liked were the ones who liked to get pushed around, liked when he took charge, liked the way he touched them, liked the dirty things he whispered in their ears when he pushed them face-first onto their memory foam mattresses or over their shiny marble counters.

Fuck, even Marten was work. Billy rubbed at his brow. That guy wouldn’t have known where to stick his dick unless Billy drew him a map.

God. The depressing thing was that he was one of the better men in Billy’s phone.

Billy hesitated, his thumb hovering over his contact list. One of the better ones, sure.

But he wasn’t the best. Billy chewed on his lip.

It’d only been two weeks since the Big Cat massacre. Billy liked to put at least a month between hook-ups with one person, lest they get the wrong idea about what kind of thing they had with Billy. Two weeks wasn’t exactly ‘going steady’ territory, but it felt dangerous.

On the other hand, Frank’s dick was one of the best Billy’d had in years and he knew how to use it without Billy coaching him every step. He was strong enough to hold Billy down, big enough to really make him feel it, and had enough stamina to make sure Billy would keep feeling it for days after.

Frank wasn’t work. Frank looked after him. Billy’s hand fell to his hip, where three fingertip-shaped bruises had already faded to faint shadows. Even the afterglow felt good.

Someone laughed a few feet away. Billy flinched, opening the eyes he didn’t even realise he’d closed. A woman and her friends looked at him from the sides of their eyes as they passed. One held her hand over her face and gave him a cheek-crinkling smile.

He let out a quiet breath and tried to relax. Somehow, his toes had started to curl inside his boots.

He deserved this, he told himself as he scrolled to the ‘F’s in his phone. He had a craving. He deserved a treat. Two weeks wasn’t that dangerous, really.

_You want to be careful._

Whatever. Frank was just another meathead with a good dick. Billy’d been having guys like him for breakfast since he was old enough to drive. He pressed his thumb on the call button.

* * *

Frank sighed as his pocket buzzed for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Wesley raised his head like a curious dog at the sound.

“Again?” he asked, breathless even though they’d stopped drilling five minutes ago. Frank couldn’t tell if he was asking about another round—to the kid’s credit, they’d been at it for almost a solid hour—or if he was asking about the phone.

“I think we’re done for the night,” Frank said, opting to answer the former.

Wesley sat on the mats with his legs stretched out in a V, blond hair flopping over his sweat-band, cheeks red, and his grey-brown eyes wide. Gleason’s was mostly shut down at this time of night. The normal people had gone home to their normal lives. Only the die-hards, or the adrenalin junkies, or the guys who worked weird hours stuck around after 11pm. Frank was a little of all three. Wesley, as far as he could tell, was none of the above.

Frank still had no idea what the guy did for a living. Given the amount of money he spent on Frank’s time, he suspected ‘investment banker’ wasn’t far off. If he was in finance, he kept odd hours. Or he had a coke habit. Frank couldn’t think of any other reasons why he’d be able to keep Frank out late like this.

Frank’s phone buzzed again. He sighed and dug it out. Gleason was long gone, scuttled back to whatever conch shell he called home, which left Frank free to disregard his no-phone rules.

Wesley stared at Frank’s cell.

“You been enjoying your sessions, Wesley?” Frank asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Wesley said, craning his neck. “I’ve been learning a whole lot. I thought for sure I’d have broken my fist by now. Or a foot maybe.”

Frank’s brow furrowed as he scrolled through his inbox. “Why would you do that?”

Wesley shrugged. “Isn’t that just what happens? You hit someone and it hurts. You break things. My cousin fractured his finger punching dry wall once. He was angry, and he hit a plank of wood. I think they call it a stud. Anyway, it hurt him and he told me that it wasn’t worth doing again.”

“What was he angry about?” Frank asked.

“He thought his wife was being unfaithful,” Wesley said. “She kept looking at her phone but she would be real secretive about it. He’d ask to look at who she was texting and she would never let him see. Drove him crazy!”

“Yeah, that can happen,” Frank said.

“She was a stay at home mom except they didn’t have kids yet. I think she was bored all the time. My cousin didn’t notice or didn’t want to notice. Same thing, I guess.” Wesley leaned back on the heels of his hands. His breathing had gotten under control. “Hey, you never use your phone this much when Gleason’s around. Does he have rules against it?”

Frank looked up from his screen, eyebrow quirked.

“Not that I plan on telling him,” Wesley said, his face cracking with a grin, dimpling his now pink cheeks.

It wasn’t the kind of smile one man usually aimed at another, and it wasn’t the first time Wesley had used it on Frank.

Frank returned his attention to his phone, pretending he hadn’t noticed. Wesley wasn’t a bad looking guy, Frank supposed, although he wasn’t really Frank’s type. Too boyish, too all-American. Maybe a little too soft. He looked like the kind of guy whose idea of a good time was dinner at Applebee’s and television programs about high school football.

“Glad to hear it,” Frank said a little too gruffly. Wesley tilted his head to the side, watching Frank as if he could possibly see the screen from his vantage on the floor.

“Is it your girl?” he asked.

Frank smiled before he could help himself. “I don’t have a girl.”

“You have a girl,” Wesley said, confident. Frank laughed. “I can always tell. You’ve got that look.”

“Bullshit. What look?” Frank asked.

“That look,” Wesley insisted, leaning forward. “That look certain men get when they’ve got someone special on their mind. Like it’s glowing through their eyeballs.”

“That sounds disgusting,” Frank said.

“It is,” Wesley said earnestly. “It’s completely disgusting. It’s the worst and best thing that could happen to someone. It’s absolutely like the stories all say. Warm all over, and then you have a glow. I know that look. I used to know it inside and out.” For the first time since they started, some of the obnoxious cheer dropped from Wesley’s voice. He looked at the beat-‘em-up dummies lined against the wall.

Frank rubbed his mouth, feeling like he’d been made to see something not meant for him. Like walking in on a lady before she’d put her face on.

“It’s my building,” Frank said. “The lovebirds—the two kids who rented the apartment on the second floor—they’re breaking up. Neither of them can afford the place on their own so they’re splitting at the end of the month.  Now I’m stuck going through applications.” Frank’s lips twisted as he clicked through another email. “I hate this part of the job. I gotta schedule tours, gotta check references… all that shit. Plus people are weird, you know? I find one person that looks alright on paper and they show up on my doorstep with five huskies and a duffel bag full of doll heads.”

Wesley’s eyes were getting big again. “I like dogs,” he said.

“I do too—just not five of them on my hardwood floors, you know?”

The clouds vanished from Wesley’s expression. “How much is the rent? Where is your building located? Is it a two bedroom or a one bedroom? Is there parking on the street?”

Frank told him. Wesley jumped up onto his feet.

“That’s perfect,” he said, breathless once again. “I need a place—didn’t I tell you that? I need a place to live. My apartment is a hole. The landlord’s never around, the kitchen sink runs, and my neighbours build furniture or something. They run power tools all day. The ones on the other side smoke so much it comes in through the vent and stinks up my bedroom. I’ve been looking for a place but I just haven’t had the time, I’ve been so busy and the market in this city is terrible.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Frank said. “Take a breath.”

Wesley did, in and out. “Sorry,” he said. “I just—I’ve been going crazy at my place. I’ve been to your neighbourhood before. It’s nice out there. Quiet. I need the quiet.” He ducked his head and laughed. “Please. I need it more than anything else right now.”

Frank said nothing. That same, strange bitterness that’d seeped into Wesley’s voice before had returned.

“I’m a non-smoker,” Wesley went on. “I don’t have kids or pets. I’m single. I have a hybrid car. A small one. I don’t play an instrument. I don’t even really listen to music that loudly. No doll heads. I’m a fantastic tenant.”

Frank hesitated. His gut was trying to tell him something about this guy, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Wesley was harmless—Frank had clocked that from the start—but there was something off about him. Frank had never seen a grown man get so excited about a rental opportunity.

Plus, there were those smiles of his, too freely given. Frank didn’t know if that was what fuelled his enthusiasm, if maybe Wesley was nursing some kind of ‘hot landlord’ fantasy. If there was a crush in the mix, that could create drama down the line.

Wesley shifted his weight. “Hey, I mean, I’ve got references if you need them. I can move in next month. I could sign you a cheque right now, if you’d like.”

Frank let out a sigh. Wesley might’ve been trouble, but at least he looked clean and he was easy to push around. Plus, it would mean Frank didn’t have to go through the carousel of freaks the city would’ve thrown up on his doorstep.

“No pets?” Frank asked. “No smoking?”

Wesley held up his hand. “Scout’s honour.”

“I’ve got a dog,” Frank said, crossing his arms. “She doesn’t bark often but she might now and then. Do you think that’ll be a problem?” Wesley shook his head. “I lift weights some nights, and I listen to music while I do it. I’ve also been known to smoke in the backyard.”

Wesley’s eyes shone. “There’s a backyard?”

“It’s my backyard,” Frank said. Wesley looked so disappointed that he sighed. “But you can use it if you ask and give me some notice,” he said, relenting.

His phone pulsed in his hand. Frank looked at the screen with a frown, saw that an UNKNOWN NUMBER was calling him. A would-be applicant? He’d only put the listing up that morning. Who the fuck would call him at midnight?

“I can come by to see the place this weekend, if it’s alright,” Wesley said. “Tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Frank said absently. Anyone who’d call him at this time of night should’ve been in his contacts already. Maybe it was an emergency?

Or maybe…

“Great,” Wesley said. “I can come by at 1pm? I’ll text you when I’m on my way?”

“I gotta take this,” Frank said quickly, taking a step back and turning away. He swiped to accept, his heart pounding in his ears.

“Frank Castle,” he said.

“Where are you right now?” a familiar voice purred over the line.

Oh, thank you, Jesus. Frank cast his gaze to the ceiling and touched the tip of his index and ring finger to his lips.

“That depends,” he said, keeping his voice cool. “Where do you want me to be?”

“Good answer,” Billy said. “I’ll text you the place. Be there in an hour. If you’re not—.”

“You’ll leave and never call me again, I get it,” Frank said. “Does this mean I get to put you in my contacts?”

Billy’s quiet exhale hissed over the line. It sounded like a laugh. “One hour,” he said, and then hung up.

Frank rubbed his lips and tried to will the stupid smile on his face away. He turned back to face Wesley, who was watching him closely.

“That was her, wasn’t it?” A smile grew on his face.

“Come by tomorrow at, like, four,” Frank said. He grabbed his duffle from the ground. “Text me when you’re on your way.”

Wesley nodded, still smiling like he knew something Frank didn’t want him to know. Frank didn’t care. Wesley didn’t know shit. He jogged out onto the street, whistling under his breath while he flagged down a cab.

* * *

All the way to the hotel (The Park Hyatt in the financial district—another business hotel and a very nice one at that), Frank felt like the luckiest man in the world. It was a musical theatre, Gene Kelly dancing in the rain kind of feeling. It only intensified when Billy pushed him down onto the bed (another king, naturally), pulled his shirt off, and climbed on top of him.

It didn’t fade when they’d finished, Billy slumped over on Frank’s chest, panting hard into his neck. If anything, it got better. Frank felt like a man who’d won the lottery, got a life-saving liver transplant, and got to meet Bruce Springsteen all in the same day. He curled his hand around the back of Billy’s neck, felt his damp hair brush against his knuckles, and sighed with pleasure.

“That felt a little personal,” Frank said, his voice a quiet rumble. Billy tensed. “Like you were workin’ something out. Not that I’m complainin’,” he added with a grin, dragging his fingers lightly over Billy’s sweat-warm skin. “You’re welcome to work out whatever you need to on me any time. Did someone piss you off?”

Billy didn’t move or speak for a few seconds, which wasn’t that odd. Billy was usually still and quiet after a good fuck.

He huffed and Frank relaxed. The danger he’d only just then realised he was courting had passed.

“Someone’s always pissin’ me off,” Billy said, rolling off of Frank. “You, for example.”

“What’d I do?” Frank tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. The room felt cold without Billy’s weight on him.

Billy dangled off the edge of the bed, groping around for his jeans. “Talkin’ like you know me so well. You don’t know shit about me.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Frank knew what he’d been told and he was putting more things together all the time. He paid attention to Billy, although he had the feeling Billy wouldn’t be happy to hear that. Frank reached out and touched his thumb along the dimple of Billy’s knee. Billy twitched.

“Not for want of knowing,” Frank said instead, drawing his finger down the curve of his calf muscle. “Feel free to enlighten me whenever you like.”

Billy sat up with a black and silver lighter in his hand and a cigarette stuck in his mouth. “I’m not like you. I don’t feel the need to spill my life story to whoever.” Billy was the kind of smoker who kept the cigarette pinched between his lips as he spoke. Frank had always found that kind of endearing.

Still. “You can’t do that in here,” he said, a little regretfully.

Billy paused, his thumb on the flint wheel. “You got me a non-smoking room?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

It was maybe a little upsetting, just how much Frank liked looking at Billy. It was hard to pick just one thing to notice at any time, but Frank found himself coming back to Billy’s eyes again and again. They begged for a comparison to precious gemstones, but Frank didn’t know enough about geology to know any that were pitch black. Obsidian, maybe. Or something nicer.

“Sorry,” Frank said as he absently scratched his chest. “I’ll know better for next time.”

Billy glared and Frank was a smart man, he really was, even if people preferred not to think of him as such. But there were certain things he was stupid about. He thought those things were known to him already—his weaknesses, his vices, whatever you wanted to call them. It was a little exhilarating to think he could discover a new one after thirty-six years.

“You’ll be lucky if you get a next time,” Billy said, not fooling Frank for a second.

It felt like the inverse of what he’d gotten from Wesley hours before. He knew Billy was anything but harmless, but he couldn’t bring himself to be afraid. He smiled at Billy, reached over and plucked the unlit cigarette from his mouth. Billy dialled his glare up a few degrees, his wide lips pulling thin.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Frank said, tracing his finger along Billy’s bottom lip. “Room service?”

“Fine.” Billy lay back with a huff. “And give me your stupid vape thing. I need something in me.”

Frank grinned, elated with his victory. “Just give me a few hours and I’ll be happy to oblige,” he said, leaning over Billy.

Billy put his hand over Frank’s face and pushed him aside. Frank shimmied over to the edge of the bed.

“So, what happened?” Frank asked as he reached for his discarded jeans with his bare foot. “They stop making that fancy cologne you wear? Ran out of hair wax? Or beard oil?”

“You’re a funny man,” Billy said. He had his arm thrown over his eyes, his other hand resting on his stomach. “And a hypocrite. I know for a fact you use beard oil too.”

Frank plucked his jeans from the ground and fished his rig from the back pocket. “Of course I do,” he said, clicking the button and taking a pull of steam. “I’m not an animal. Anyway, I didn’t mean it as an insult. I like the way you smell.”

“Thanks,” Billy said.

Frank rolled back over to Billy’s side. “You smell like a fancy club,” he said, nudging him. Billy raised his arm a few inches to subject Frank to another glare. Frank smiled again—it really seemed to unnerve Billy when he did that—and held the cylinder out. “The kind of place they wouldn’t even let me work unless I wore a tie.”

Billy sat up. “That’s the point,” he said, accepting it.

“To smell like a cigar bar for rich assholes?” Frank asked.

Billy inhaled, his lids listing. Frank could watch him all day. He would pay Comcast one hundred and eighty bucks a month for a subscription to this channel. Twenty-four seven of Billy. Even if it was just his eyes, Frank would feel as if he were getting a good deal.

“That’s the idea, yeah,” Billy said, vapour oozing from his lips. “Like I’m something you couldn’t afford.”

Frank arched his back and stretched until he could feel his vertebrae pop. “That sounds about right. Feel like I’m doing an okay job keeping you around, though,” he added, relaxing once more. “Even if you are too good for me.”

Billy watched him for a moment through the dissipating steam, his lashes low over his eyes. They were so long and thick that they looked painted. Frank knew girls who’d spend time in front of the mirror with those little wands, just trying to get their lashes looking like Billy’s. He wanted to touch them.

“You said you’d give me a proper massage next time,” Billy said.

“I did,” Frank conceded. “I’m sorry. I haven’t got the stuff with me.”

“You’re just a real disappointment tonight,” Billy said and once again, Frank was not even a little fooled.

“You didn’t seem disappointed before,” he pointed out. Billy narrowed his eyes and took another pull. “You need to give me a little warning. I don’t just carry massage oils around with me. I’m not that big of a creep.”

Billy’s laugh escaped with a grey cloud from his mouth. “Yeah, fine. I’ll allow that.” He settled back onto the overstuffed pillows he’d piled behind his head.

The little bags under his eyes were cute, too. Gave him some character.

“Next time,” Frank said, watching him.

Billy laid his head back, his eyes slipping shut. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

Frank blinked, a little stunned. He’d been so wrapped up thinking about Billy’s eyes that it took a second for his words to sink in. When they finally did, he felt like that same lottery winning, Springsteen meeting man, who’d gone on to discover a cure for cancer.

Unlike Wesley, Frank knew to play it cool. He reclaimed his vape from where it lay, held loosely in Billy’s long fingers, and gave it some thought while he sucked in an inhale.

“What’s your last name?” he settled on.

Billy blew out a quiet breath without opening his eyes. “Russo,” he said.

“Where in New York are you from?”

“What makes you think I’m from New York?” Billy asked, except he pronounced it ‘Noo Yawk’. He raised one eyelid and broke into a smile. “Yeah, alright. I grew up all over, but I spent most of my time in Brooklyn.”

“I’m from Queens,” Frank said.

Billy’s eyes opened. “No shit,” he said. “I stayed with a foster family in Queens. Jamaica. From summer of ’88 to early ’89. They had a single-wide with a huge yard. Neighbours had an above-ground pool they’d let us use.”

“No shit,” Frank echoed. The mention of old homes seemed to bring something out in Billy. His eyes gleamed as he talked about his old neighbourhood, and all the old haunts he and his foster brothers and sisters would loiter in. Frank watched him, feeling luckier with every passing second.

“Back then, they wouldn’t even supervise us. It wasn’t like it is today. Me an’ my foster brother could wander around all day and night. It would be me, the neighbour kid from the other house, my foster brother… Jake, I think. Or Justin. The neighbour was an old lady who’d just sit inside and watch Days of Our Lives while we took turns diving off the ledge of her pool. One time the neighbour kid was talkin’ some shit so I pushed him off the edge and he broke his ankle.” Billy laughed, rubbing his chin. “Fuck, I got into so much trouble for that. Grounded for three weeks and I had to write three apology letters.” His smile faded. “I got sent away not long after.” He turned his gaze to the ceiling. “It was a nice neighbourhood.”

Frank let the silence settle, his eyes on Billy’s face. “I got my third tattoo at a parlour in Jamaica,” he said.

Billy sniffed. He sat up, his long, bare legs folded, elbows resting on his knees. He gangled a little, which amused Frank. Long limbs all loose and elastic, a hint of the awkward teen he must’ve been, once upon a time.

“You probably should’ve asked for your money back,” Billy said.

For some reason, it also made Frank want to put his hands on Billy again. The slouch of Billy’s spine, the curl of his shoulders, the slight pouch of his stomach at rest. Billy was a lean, spare man. There wasn’t much on him that could afford to be soft. Frank wanted to put his hand over Billy’s abdomen, over the spill of black and grey ink. Those beautiful flowers, each one capable of killing a man dead. (Frank had googled it.)

“I don’t remember how much I paid for it,” Frank said.

“Too much,” Billy said without hesitation. “You could get into fuckin’ Ripleys as the man with the worst taste in ink in the world. It’s embarrassing.”

Frank was a lot of things. He was clever and fast and strong. Stronger, certainly, than anyone who had the misfortune of crossing his path when he had a gun in his hands. But he had his weaknesses. He didn’t know how to protect himself from this newest one. He didn’t want to try.

Without really thinking about it, he reached out and pressed his hand against Billy’s stomach.

It reminded Frank of the first time he managed to touch Lola’s head without getting a growl in response. Billy’s skin twitched under his hand and, for a moment, Frank wondered if he was crossing some kind of line, if this was maybe a little too intimate. He worried Billy might pull away.

He didn’t. Billy settled and, once again, Frank felt as if he was the recipient of some cosmic good fortune that he should be in this hotel room, with his hands on a man as beautiful as Billy Russo.

“Is your full name William Russo?” Frank asked as he slid his fingers over the black, bell-shaped bloom of foxglove.

Billy huffed. “Yes,” he said.

Frank traced along the curling, pointed leaves of the belladonna. “William the Red…”

“I guess,” Billy said. He twitched again as Frank brushed his thumb over the ridge of his ribcage.

The corner of Frank’s lips lifted. “You ticklish?”

“Shut up.” Billy didn’t move away, although Frank had expected him to. Maybe he was trying to prove a point. “Why do you care so much about my name? Cause if your next question’s gonna be about my middle name, I’ve got disappointing news for you, my friend.”

Frank drew his finger along the bursting heart of a larkspur bloom, just under the thud of Billy’s heart, and gave Billy’s question some thought.

Billy’s chest rose and fell but he didn’t pull away. Frank felt as if he was earning something, inch by inch.

“It’s the business we’re in, I guess,” Frank said at last. “It’s not really one that allows for a lot of trust. I mean.” He shifted his weight, pulling himself closer, and slid his hand up Billy’s chest. “It does and it doesn’t, right? We have to trust each other enough not to get each other killed but that’s more about self-preservation than anything.”

He could feel Billy’s thudding pulse under his palm. This was where the ink stopped, leaving the stretch of pale skin over his heart looking bare, vulnerable. Frank put his other hand on the bowl of Billy’s knee. It earned him another twitch, but still, Billy stayed. It felt like a gift. Pleasure grew in Frank’s chest, a bloom of his very own, buried under skin and muscle. He never wanted to take his hands off Billy.

“Trusting the other person to hold a gun and not to shoot you in the back,” Billy said.

“Or a knife,” Frank said. He slid one hand down Billy’s calf, small hairs brushing under his fingers, while he spread the fingers of his other hand over Billy’s chest. “But that’s not really trust, right? Cause you’ve got a gun, too. If one guy pulls the trigger, then it becomes a bloodbath. Mutually assured destruction.” He brushed his thumb across Billy’s nipple.

Billy’s lashes fluttered. His lips parted only a fraction, barely even noticeable to anyone else, but Frank noticed everything Billy did. He wished Billy would touch him. Billy’s gaze swept across his neck and his chest, but his hands stayed in the bowl of his crossed legs.

“That’s not real trust,” Frank went on, rubbing his thumb in a circle. “A name, a real one… that’s something special. That’s a weapon someone could use against you. And you know it. Don’t you, Billy Russo?”

It was fascinating, just how cold Billy’s expression could become in the space of a breath, with barely a twitch of a muscle. Lowering his lashes was all it took, shielding his black button eyes from the light.

Frank’s gave his knee a squeeze. “I wouldn’t use it against you,” he said. “Even if I get caught—which is unlikely—I wouldn’t snitch. No cop’s gonna get anything from me about anyone. Especially not about you. And you know that too, don’t you?”

Billy’s lips twitched, his eyes still cold and impossibly dark. And maybe it was the weed, but Frank thought he saw a flash of something else in them. An emotion Billy wouldn’t want to hear named.

“Yeah,” Billy said. “I know it.” He put his hand over the one on his chest and leaned down. “You wouldn’t do anything against me. Would you, Frank Castle?” He touched Frank at last, his other hand coming to rest at the base of Frank’s neck.

He filled Frank’s vision, his long fingers wrapped around Frank’s throat. Not constricting, but not loose, either. Frank could see the twin gleams of lamplight reflected in his eyes, shining like a butter moon in still black waters. Frank thought if he got a little closer, he might even see himself.

Matt was right, the asshole. It was like hypnotism. Not just the voice, but everything. Frank knew he could look away, he knew he had that physical ability in him, but he didn’t want to. He never wanted to.

“Nah,” Frank said. He swallowed, just to feel his skin shift against Billy’s palm.

“Cause you’re a sap,” Billy went on.

Frank smiled. He leaned into Billy’s hand. “Only for you, beautiful,” he said.

The smug amusement drained from Billy’s expression, his lips falling and his eyes widening. Just for the briefest moment, he actually looked surprised. And maybe a little frightened.

And then it was gone in a snap, so fast that Frank wondered if he’d seen anything in the first place. He took Billy’s hand before he could retreat, leaned up and captured his lips. Billy froze, maybe stunned, and it was flattering to think Frank could have even a fraction of the effect on Billy that Billy had on him.

The moment passed. Billy opened his mouth and licked Frank’s lower lip, the fingers holding Frank’s neck twitched. Frank drew him down onto the mattress and felt like he’d conned the god of fortune when Billy followed him.

A little while later, Billy laid back and Frank curled around him. He traced his fingers once more over the trumpet-shaped blooms of foxglove. He liked them the best, if only because they were easy to recognize. His head felt as if it’d been filled with pink clouds, a warmth that seeped down his spine and found roots in all his softest parts.

“You really like ‘em, huh,” Billy drawled, his words thick and slow as warm molasses.

Frank kissed the juncture of Billy’s neck. “They’re beautiful,” he said.

Billy hummed, wriggling a little under Frank’s hand. “I’m gonna need to buy you a thesaurus,” he said, shifting further down the mattress. “You need to start thinkin’ of new ways to describe me. I mean, if you’re serious about this whole courtin’ thing.”

“I’m very serious,” Frank said, very seriously. He kissed the underside of Billy’s jaw. “And I can’t help it. That word just comes to mind whenever I lay eyes on you. But there are others.” He skimmed his hand across Billy’s stomach, thumb brushing against the dark hair trailing down from his navel.

“Oh, yeah?” Billy just lay back, apparently content to be touched and cherished. Frank kissed him again, a little below the first spot.

“Radiant,” Frank said. Another kiss. “Gorgeous. Incredible. Handsome. Graceful.” He punctuated each word with another kiss, trailing from Billy’s jaw down to his collarbone. He could feel the tremble of Billy’s laughter in his chest. “Exquisite. Uh.” He blinked, his eyelashes tickling the skin of Billy’s neck. “Symmetrical?” Billy snorted, his throat bobbing. Frank chased the movement with another kiss.

“ _Lovely_ ,” he said, the word echoing pleasure through his synapses. Billy’s hand came to rest at the back of Frank’s neck. “Fascinating. Charming.”

Another snort. “You’re not wrong,” he said, “but I haven’t exactly been turnin’ the charm on you.”

“You don’t have to try,” Frank said. “The second you put that knife to my throat, I knew I was done.”

Frank felt Billy’s pulse throb under his thumb. He followed that with a kiss too.

“Sap,” Billy said. A single syllable, but Frank could’ve sworn he heard a tremor in his voice.

He shifted under Frank’s hands, twisting out of his grip and turning onto his side. He threw one arm out, reaching for the phone he’d left plugged into the charging dock on the bedside table. Frank edged a little closer, not quite reclaiming all his lost territory, but regaining some ground. He put his hand on Billy’s hip.

The phone lit up, a blue glare in the close, dark comfort of their room. Frank could see the notifications crowding the screen, his eyes just barely making out the shape of people’s names. The sight of them, of a bunch of strangers messaging Billy at this time of night, as if they had that kind of right to his time, punctured the warm fog of pleasure he’d wrapped around himself.

“Shit,” Billy said under his breath. “It’s gettin’ late.”

“It’s not,” Frank said. “It’s barely past 2am. I still owe you room service, remember?”

Billy said nothing. Frank reclaimed another inch, until he was close enough to press a kiss at the knot of Billy’s spine.

“C’mon,” Frank said. Not his strongest argument, but it felt safe. “Where would you go, anyway?”

“Maybe I got plans you don’t know about,” Billy said. The teasing drawl had dropped from his voice, replaced with a hard patter of syllables. Like bullet casings dropping from a gun. “Maybe it’s none of your business where I go.”

Frank sighed, very quietly. He wished that wasn’t true.

He watched the screen flicker over the pale curve of Billy’s shoulder as Billy started tapping on messages. Jealousy unfurled over him like a cold sheet. He didn’t realise he’d been clenching his jaw until he felt it ache.

Frank forced himself to relax, let his eyes shut and visualized breathing out his tension in a stream of black smoke. He wasn’t twenty years old anymore. He couldn’t afford to fly off the handle over shit like this.

After a few moments of silence, Billy seemed to relax too. The tense line of his shoulder blades slumped and his phone slipped from his hand and onto the mattress.

“I should go,” he said.

Frank kissed him again, right over the writhing curve of a snake. He wondered what kind they were—that was one thing he hadn’t googled yet. A copperhead, maybe. Black mamba. Something venomous, Frank had no doubt.

“You could stay,” Frank said. He watched Billy’s back shift with his inhale, the muscles and the delicate wings of his shoulder blades moving under his skin.

He turned to face Frank, curling into his arms, their noses bumping together.

“Nah,” he said and kissed him.

Frank sighed into his mouth, resigning himself to the L. He wrapped his arms around Billy and took what was granted to him.

Billy slipped out of his arms. Frank watched him perform the same dance people in darkened, unfamiliar rooms did the world over as he hunted the floor for his clothes. Frank supposed he could offer his assistance but he was tired and feeling petty. He didn’t want to do anything that would shorten the amount of time they spent together.

“I got your number now,” Frank said.

Billy hopped a little as he pulled his jeans over his hips. “Oh, yeah?”

“I could give you a call. If I wanted to,” Frank said.

Billy pulled his shirt on. All Frank could see was his back, the curve of his spine, the ridges visible under thin cotton, as Billy struggled to put on his boots.

“You could,” Billy said, after far too long a pause. “Doesn’t mean I’d answer.” He gave up with the struggle and sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. He looked over his shoulder and gave Frank a lop-sided grin. “I know you were peekin’ at my phone. You know how many people call me? Yours would be just another name on my screen.”

“It wouldn’t.” Frank folded his arms behind his head, stretching out in a way he knew would catch Billy’s eye. Confidence had gotten him some success before. He had a feeling Billy liked it, that it would keep on working.

It did. Billy’s gaze sank to Frank’s chest.

“I know how popular you are,” Frank said. “That doesn’t bother me. I told you before, didn’t I? Sooner or later, mine will be the only name in your contacts that matters.” He smiled. “You’re gonna put a heart next to it.”

Billy rolled his eyes, flicked a strand of hair from his forehead, and laughed. Frank wasn’t fooled. He saw it again, just for the briefest space between one moment and the next, the look that flashed across Billy’s face. Surprised, and a little nervous.

“You really are somethin’.” Billy stood up. “How’d a guy as dumb as you survive this long, anyway?”

“I’m not that dumb,” Frank said as he stretched. “But I am real lucky.”

* * *

Alright. Maybe waiting only two weeks was a little more dangerous than Billy wanted to admit. He pushed through the revolving doors, leaving the old school opulence of the hotel lobby in his tracks. He liked the Hyatt because it was one of the oldest joints in the city, used to be an independently-run place back before it was purchased by a chain and refurbished. It reminded Billy of the kind of places he’d admired when he was a kid, the opulence that’d fallen into neglect in what used to be nice neighbourhoods. Something pretty gone to ruin, consumed by hard times. It satisfied something in him, even back then.

Billy thought about that because it felt easier, safer than thinking about what he’d just walked away from.

Which was nothing. Billy walked to the corner, one hand digging into his jacket for his cigarettes. Frank’s words followed him, nipping at the heel of every thought like excitable puppies.

 _Lovely,_ he’d said. No one had ever said anything like that to Billy. Nobody was that stupid, or blind. Billy snapped his lighter open.

It was the weed, he decided. He wasn’t a fan of getting stoned. He didn’t like the way it made his eyes sting, made him feel as if moss had started growing inside his skull, soft and warm. And Frank’s stuff was strong. Billy inhaled good old-fashioned nicotine and tobacco, hoping the smoke might chase out the lingering high.

Frank was an idiot, that was all. He was hardly the first person to try and ingratiate themselves into Billy’s absent heart. Plenty of people had tried to keep Billy around longer than he intended to stay but they were pretty easily dissuaded. That screaming, feral kid he’d been—the one who beat on his foster siblings, stole from his foster mom’s purse, screamed himself hoarse anytime the word ‘share’ was mentioned in his presence—never went away, not really. He wasn’t meant to be tamed. He wasn’t meant for happy families.

Frank would figure it out, eventually. They always did. And then maybe they could go back to just fucking.

Billy rubbed at the wrinkles forming on his forehead. Not _go back_ , he reminded himself. Going back implied that they’d gone anywhere else in the first place. They were still just fucking. Nothing had happened.

His heart thudded a runner’s beat against his chest, hard enough that Billy could feel it in his neck, his head. His body’s fight or flight instinct, kicking in for no good reason. He breathed out a long stream of smoke, hoping to excise it, to call in a sense of zen.

He leaned against a bus stop, ignored the interested looks of the two people seated on the bench, and pulled out his phone. The screen lit up before he could touch a button, a new message from one of his many contacts. There’d been a few others since he left the hotel, too. None of them were from Frank.

Which was good. Billy stared at the screen, feeling fried behind his eyes, until it went dark. He didn’t expect anything from Frank. He’d be annoyed if there was anything. He sucked in another drag from his cigarette and stepped out to the curb, raising his hand to hail a cab.

He could answer one of them. Go out. He could find someone else. Maybe try for another man. Although he was so goddamn picky, it would take him the rest of the night to find one that measured up to his standards. And even then it was a gamble. They could always be terrible in bed.

Besides, Frank would be a tough act to follow. Billy ached as he slid into the backseat and gave the driver his home address. He was tired anyway.

* * *

The next few days passed quietly. Billy picked up a few jobs from a temp agency he’d signed up with when he’d first arrived in the city. He didn’t need the money but he needed something to do with his days and mindless office work kept him from going stir-crazy. The work was mostly dull. Mindless data entry, mail room stuff, or phone work.

The reason Billy kept doing it instead of finding other, more interesting ways to pass his time, like getting a hobby or developing a drug habit, was the stuff around it. A corporate office was a closed, controlled environment. Whether it was a cubical farm or one of those modern, open concept start-ups, they were all the same. Like grade school for adults. Everyone knew everyone else, delicate webs of interpersonal relationships keeping them all connected, keeping them all playing nice.

And in would come Billy, dressed up in black slacks, white collared shirt, skinny tie and a wide, bright smile, released like a panther into a rabbit warren. People liked Billy when they didn’t know him. They liked to talk to him because if they did, he might smile at them, and people wanted so badly for him to smile at them.

Usually, by the end of his first day, he had everything on everyone. Who got caught fucking who in the supply closet during the holiday party, who had a crush on the pretty girl in receivables, who was cheating on their wife with their receptionist (what a fucking cliché but it always happened; C-suite types going through a mid-life crisis were always hiring pretty 20-year-olds for a reason). With all that info, it was easy to insinuate himself into the web of drama—his smile could open more than just doors, after all—and start setting off bombs. He could fuck the pretty receptionist, or the girl in receivables. He could make the COO sweat into his collar. Work his way through them all, detonating every relationship before his contract was finished.

It passed the time.

Frank hadn’t texted him. Not that Billy was looking for him or anything, but. He’d have figured, given how keen Frank had seemed during their last time together, that he would’ve been blowing up Billy’s phone. They usually did, those people smitten with Billy before they realised that he wasn’t something they could put a collar on and take home from the pound. He’d fucked the girl in receivables all of one time and she’d started texting him every day, doubling down when it became obvious that Billy was ignoring her.

One week after his hook-up with Frank, and three days into his new contract, the guys in IT, the mailroom, legal, finance, and other assorted losers had invited Billy out for a few drinks. They made a point of getting him to sit beside some chick—Casey? Like, from the PR department? They’d talked in the kitchen?—which told him everything he needed to know about their motivation here. He wondered who owed Casey the favour.

Casey liked him, but one of the bros from legal liked Casey. Billy amused himself for an hour by turning on the charm and driving them both a little insane.

“Ugh.” One of the women from accounting—Maylin?—pulled a face as she looked at her phone.

“Is it the guy again?” Her friend and fellow accountant leaned into Maylin’s space, practically falling into her lap. “The bonobo guy?”

“That guy’s still texting you?” Casey asked eagerly. Her cheeks were flushed from the two mojitos she’d tossed back in the last hour. She nudged Billy. “This guy she met at a professional development conference last month. He broke the ice with a picture of a bonobo which we all thought was kind of cute but he’s been lame since.”

“Sent you a dick pic?” Billy asked as the server put his second Old Fashioned at his elbow. The women laughed while the men chuckled nervously.

“Nah, not quite. But he only texts when he’s in town and only after dark. I found his Facebook but it’s locked up tight. I think he’s married.” Maylin sighed. “I’ve got nothing but losers in my contacts.” She set her phone face-down on the table.

Billy thought about the kind of people who populated his contacts. He definitely had a few married people, bored wives with shitty husbands (or vice versa—Billy didn’t care enough to judge). All them, married or otherwise, seemed to work from the same playbook when it came to texting. He’d never gotten a monkey pic, but he’d seen more than a few lame attempts to get his attention.

Casey seemed like a new contact in the making. She played with her hair, tried to playfully tease him, kicked him lightly in the ankle every time he said something that made her laugh, and generally sent out ‘come-fuck-me’ vibes with every quirk of her lips and flutter of her lashes. Billy wouldn’t even have to try with her.

And then there was Brent from legal. Poor, love-sick Brent, who watched Casey with cow eyes and sent flash-fry looks at Billy every time he thought he could get away with it. All Billy had to do with Brent was send him a special smile, lean over his drink, and ask him about his home-brew beer set-up in his basement, and that was Brent taken care of. Billy felt pretty confident he could score a threesome by the end of the night.

Cause people were easy. They were all so easy. And Frank was so…

 _Stupid_ or so Billy would’ve been tempted to say, but he didn’t feel good about that label. Frank was simple, maybe, but Billy wasn’t so sure about stupid.

A stupid man would’ve tried to hit Billy when he drew his knife on him, would’ve gotten aggressive, would’ve tried to push Billy around, would’ve refused to say ‘please’, to play nice. Billy dealt with stupid men every goddamn day. He knew them inside and out. Frank seemed like he should’ve been one of them—and when Billy pulled his knife on him to correct his behaviour, he could see the way Frank considered escalating things between them, could see those wheels turning behind his brown eyes—but he wasn’t.

Then again, Frank had called him _lovely_. That was maybe the stupidest thing Billy had heard in years.

When he finished his second drink, after listening to Maylin and the other ladies talk about the shitty texts they’ve gotten through Tinder or whatever, Billy got an idea. He left the table and made his way to the alcove at the back of the restaurant, where the doors to the private washrooms stalls sat in a line, all closed. He ignored them and pulled out his phone, a theory starting to percolate among the three ounces of bourbon he’d just ingested on an empty stomach (his two Old Fashioneds graciously paid for by Casey and then by Brent, the morons). He ignored his latest messages and scrolled down his list of contacts.

See, they were all the same, every last one of them. If Billy texted one of them out of the blue about anything, anything at all, they would try to turn it to sex.

Sex was what people wanted from Billy, more than they wanted his smile (really, the smile was just a promise). Frank was just like them. He loved fucking Billy and who could blame him? Billy just needed to remind himself. It would put Frank back into his place, right where he belonged. Just another name in his phone, another man with a good dick.

He would text Frank and then Frank would try to invite him out for a hook-up and Billy would be satisfied that Frank was just like the others. This turn of action made a lot of sense to Billy, in that moment.

He stared at the phone for a moment, his thumb hovering above the screen. There was a roar of water from behind one of the closed doors, followed by a too-brief hiss from the tap. Billy had no idea what to type.

Which was stupid. Anything he sent was a gift. It didn’t matter what he said, people jumped to reply. He scowled at the screen and typed out the first thing that came to mind.

‘Do you know anything about microbrews?’

He stared at the unsent message for another moment. The door opened and someone squeezed past. Billy didn’t look away from his phone.

Fine. That was good. His stomach shivered, maybe from hunger. He forced his thumb down and pressed send.

And then he waited, which was terrible. He thought about returning to the table, but he could hear them from where he stood, hidden in the alcove behind a paper screen, and nothing about their chatter seemed appealing.

Seconds ticked past and Billy could feel the anger building in him like a rising pyre. Every single person in that office was an idiot. They were all dull, easily lead around by their libidos. He could go back out there and finish his night off, lure Casey and Brent back to one of their places (Billy would never take them to his) and then implode their pathetic little relationship with a threesome they would both regret in the morning. He could fuck Casey while Brent watched, or vice-versa, and probably make one of them cry alone in the bathroom.

Just as he started seriously considering heading back to the table, his phone buzzed in his hand and Frank’s name (followed by the eggplant emoji Billy hadn’t bothered to remove) appeared on his screen.

‘As little as I possibly can,’ read the message. Another buzz. ‘Why? Are you on a tour?’

Billy breathed a little more easily, the anger vanishing with the exhale. He typed out a message, feeling smug. Frank had basically just asked him where he was, which was just a precursor to getting him to be where Frank wanted him to be, _vis a vis_ under him, getting dicked. QED.

Billy didn’t have to answer, of course. He’d made his point.

‘No at a bar,’ Billy typed anyway. ‘Trying to flatter some asshole into a threesome.’

His phone buzzed a second later. ‘With microbrews??’

Billy’s lips twitched. He would’ve expected Frank to ask if he was invited.

‘He brews his own beer,’ Billy replied. ‘I’m kind of winging it here.’ He didn’t know why he added that last part but he pressed send before he could think better of it.

‘I never get the appeal of brewing your own beer,’ Frank sent back almost immediately. ‘I tried someone’s homebrew stuff once and it was awful. Tasted like he’d dissolved pennies in a barrel.’

Billy huffed. ‘That’s the hops,’ he sent.

‘It’s disgusting,’ Frank sent back. ‘And you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who ever has to wing it.’

‘Well,’ Billy typed. ‘We all have our off-days.’

‘Just pull a knife on him. Worked for me,’ Frank sent.

‘That’s because you’re a singularly stupid individual, Frank Castle.’

‘Only for you, gorgeous. ;)’

“Who are you texting?” someone asked.

Billy looked up, face flooding with heat. He felt like he’d been caught out at something, a surge of anger burning as hot and brief as a road flare behind his eyes.

Casey took a step back, her eyes widening. “Um. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Billy bit back a curse and tried to school his features. “You didn’t,” he said, trying out a smile. It came easily enough. “I was just…”

Casey bit her lip. “Someone special?” she asked, smiling a little wryly.

Billy stuffed his phone away. “Nah,” he said.

The night didn’t go much further than that. Billy didn’t lure Casey or Brent into anything. He’d lost his appetite for them. He left the bar, turned down the invitation to karaoke, and waved goodbye from the inside of a cab.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Billy stared at his phone. Frank hadn’t sent him another text. He flexed his jaw, ignored the messages from his other contacts, and opened his conversation with Frank.

‘Where are you right now?’ He hit send as soon as he was finished typing. He didn’t want to think about this.

The response was almost immediate.

‘Anywhere you want me to be. ;)’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy's preferred drink is an Old Fashioned, which, like the Martini, is a pretty standard cocktail for the guy who wants to appear sophisticated without actually learning anything about cocktails. Did you know Ernest 'I'm-so-manly-I-hate-that-Wheat-used-an-adverb-in-my-epithet' Hemingway drank daiquiris? It's true!
> 
> I have no idea if my tumblr inbox is working or not. But hey I'm on tumblr: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left a comment. It means more than I can clumsily express. :")


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank decides to move their relationship up another level. Billy pretends that isn't interesting to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jun/ssealdog for the beta job!! 
> 
> Sorry for the delay. I got home yesterday and was too tired to do much of anything except laundry and then sleep. Luckily this chapter is exxxtra long to make up for it.

Things with the Deshauers didn’t end just because Micro took out one of their most valuable allies. An empire couldn’t be built on a single pillar,  but knocking Pryce down had caused damage they didn’t have the resources to immediately fix. Their cop allies were named and shamed and, without Pryce around to protect them, most found themselves under investigation or demoted. Facing down the certainty of an internal affairs investigation, many were pressured into leaving, creating empty positions that some of Micro’s key people could fill. Best of all, it left the Deshauers exposed.

Micro took advantage. The slow game he’d been playing for the last ten months picked up speed. He made more moves against them, sent his most trusted people out on jobs to weaken the Deshauer grip on the city’s underworld infrastructure. Disrupting shipments, sabotaging deals, buying out those who were willing to be bought out at a reasonable price and killing those who weren’t.

The Deshauers were getting desperate and it was starting to show, to Micro’s muted pleasure. There’d been some activity on the docks, some out-of-town toughs and hired guns coming to the shores. Although none of them had yet made contact with the Deshauers, it did concern Micro.

“Maybe we can hire them out from under the Deshauers?” Frank suggested during a meeting.

Micro tapped his chin with the edge of his razor-thin phone and stared at the white board. “I don’t know if they’re here to fight this war or not. I don’t want to waste resources on them if they’re not going to be a threat.”

 “I’ll keep an eye on it,” Frank said.

Frank got sent out on more of these jobs than anyone else. That was no surprise. What was a surprise, however, was that Billy got tagged off the bench almost as often.

They’d been sent out to sweet talk a high-end arms dealer, a die-hard Deshauer ally, in the hopes that she might be swayed to see reason. She was, but only after they mowed down her four bodyguards.

Frank was on him as soon as they were alone in the car, the reek of gunsmoke and blood clinging to his jacket, smelling better than any two-hundred-dollar bottle of Tom Ford or Maison Margiela. Billy had never spent so much time naked in a backseat before he met Frank Castle.

This filled up Billy’s time better than any temp job in a cubicle farm. He wanted to think that his incredible talents had impressed, but he had a feeling his popularity had nothing to do with Micro’s admiration.

“I know it’s you,” Billy told Frank one night after another gig.

“What is?” Frank asked in a sleepy murmur.

He’d taken Billy to a hotel afterwards, gotten him on a proper bed, and gotten him naked again. Now they were at ease, resting with sweat cooling on bare skin.

“This thing with Micro,” Billy said while Frank mouthed lazily at his collarbone. “Gettin’ called in again and again. You asked him to, didn’t you?”

“So what if I did?” Frank returned, breath hot on Billy’s skin. He traced his fingers over the outline of Billy’s tattoos. “Doesn’t mean you haven’t earned your spot.”

Billy laughed, quiet and brief, and stretched, arching his back. Frank pressed a soft kiss on his shoulder, just over the line of an old scar.

“Is that what you call this?” he asked, rolling over to face Frank. He threw one long leg over Frank’s, entangling them. “Am I earning my spot right now, Frankie?”

It was a challenge delivered with bite, but Frank didn’t seem to notice. There wasn’t an ounce of guilt in his expression. He looked at Billy the way he’d taken to looking at him since the first time he saw Billy covered in blood. Heated and soft. Like Billy was something special.

“Micro wouldn’t pick you if he didn’t trust you to do a good job,” Frank said. He cupped the side of Billy’s face with one hand, his callused fingers curling around the hinge of Billy’s jaw. “He wouldn’t pick you just ’cause I happen to like watching you work.” He leaned forward, fingers brushing at the soft skin under Billy’s ear, and kissed him. “Just because I like you, period,” he said, the words ghosting over Billy’s lips.

Billy’s heart knocked against his ribs like he’d dropped it. He ignored it, the way he’d ignored it every other time it did something weird just ‘cause Frank said something stupid. He kissed Frank before he could say anything else.

This was dangerous and Billy knew it, although he tried not to think about it. He started seeing Frank more often, breaking his month-long waiting period rule again and again. He broke a lot of his rules for Frank.

He let Frank hold him, touch him, kiss him, even after they were finished. He’d started to let Frank touch him without asking first—although Frank would still whisper _please, please_ in his ear. Billy suspected he only did it because he knew how much Billy liked it.

He texted Frank. Not even to hook-up. Sometimes he texted him just because… because he was still trying to prove something to himself, although he was losing track of what it was. He kept waiting for Frank to ignore him, or to push straight for sex, but he never did. Frank followed Billy’s lead. He’d started sending him pictures of his dog, for Christ’s sake.

(A cute dog, Billy supposed. A pit bull Frank called the ‘love of his life’. When Billy replied with a string of nauseated face emojis, Frank just told him there was no need to be jealous. That there was room in his heart and his life for two loves. Billy’s hands went cold. He replied with a single vomiting emoji.)

Every time they finished a job, Billy told himself he would be strong enough to resist. Every time Frank smiled at him from across the table, every time he touched Billy’s hand or his thigh in the back seat of their get-away car, every time Frank gave him so much as a heated look—Billy would tell himself that this would be the time he would push away. This would be the time he would put Frank in his place, say no, reinstate their boundaries.

Not once had he managed to succeed. All Frank had to do was quirk an eyebrow, maybe lick his lips, and Billy was finished. It was terrifying just how easily Frank managed to slip under all his defences with the deftness of a surgeon’s scalpel.

The hell of it was, Frank wasn’t even behaving badly. After that first encounter, and the steps Billy took to correct his behaviour, Frank had been… Well. Maybe not a _perfect_ gentleman (a perfect gentleman wouldn’t have pushed his thigh between Billy’s legs, slipped his hands under the hem of his shirt, whispered pure filth in Billy’s ear while he held him against a warehouse wall, surrounded by the still-cooling bodies of their recent victims), but he didn’t cross any lines, didn’t push at Billy’s boundaries. He took what he was offered, and asked before trying anything else.

And Billy had started saying ‘yes’ without thinking about it.

One day, Billy told himself, he would set this right again. One day, when Frank quirked his disgustingly perfect lips, flashed his teddy-bear eyes, tipped his head and asked Billy if he wanted to get out of there, Billy would finally say ‘no’. He would walk away, call someone else, maybe while still in Frank’s earshot, and let that someone else take care of him for the night. He would enjoy himself. And he wouldn’t think of Frank, not even for a minute.

(He’d started to think of Frank outside of the time he spent with him. Once he’d called up another dick in his phone, spent a semi-disappointing night on his hands and knees, he’d closed his eyes and started to think about Frank’s hands on his hips, his chest on his back, lips on his neck, his perfect cock nestled hot inside of him… Billy didn’t even realise what he was doing until he was already close and by then he had no desire to stop. He might’ve groaned the wrong name, if the hurt look his partner gave him afterwards was any indication.)

Billy could still fix this, if he needed to. If he felt like it was necessary. But right now, everything was fine. Right now, he could enjoy himself, enjoy Frank, and the thing they had for what it was. He had everything under control.

* * *

By mid-June, the Deshauers’ hold on the city had slipped several notches, all thanks to the guerrilla warfare Micro and Frank had waged against them. Billy could feel the change in the air. A new bouncer appeared outside of the Big Cat and, rumour had it, the upstairs penthouse had been closed down and gutted. The police attention brought on by the massacre had put a swift end to their secondary business.

Billy was surprised he and Frank hadn’t faced any fallout. Even if there hadn’t been any cameras on that floor, or in the gambling lounge, there’d definitely been some in the downstairs and pointed at the entrance. Plenty of witnesses had seen the pretty boy Pryce had taken up to his room that final time. But, according to Frank, all the data from the cameras had gone missing. The witness testimonies were clean of any mention of a ‘tall, very beautiful man with gorgeous black eyes and long, long legs’ (Frank’s words). The right palms had been greased and Micro’s people in the force covered up the rest.

One night in late spring, Billy got called in for another job. There was an exchange scheduled to take place at the south docks. A new shipment; enough hardware to aerate half the city with lead. More guns than the Deshauers’ would normally run. It showed they were getting nervous. Gearing up for a war.

“A war they’ve already lost,” Micro said absently as he fiddled with his Blackberry. “Interrupt the deal. Make it look like a double-cross.”

“A double-cross with who?” Kitty asked. “The Deshauers or the Turks?”

“Both. Sow the seeds of discord on both sides of the fence, so to speak.” Micro rubbed his nose with his handkerchief and tapped something out with one hand.

They gave Billy a rifle. A McMillan TAC-338, all matte black plastic and metal, heavy and cold in his arms. Billy couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten his hands on hardware like this. He fell in love as soon as he wrapped his finger around the trigger casing, set the stock against his shoulder, and peered down the high-powered scope.

“You look good,” Frank told him quietly. They’d geared up before they left. Billy dressed in black tactical gear, material smooth and slippery to the touch. It felt a little absurd—he’d never before worn anything as expensive as this—but he couldn’t deny that it felt good.

Frank had made a point of getting in the back with Billy. They had gotten a van this time. Not the nimblest of vehicles but it was large enough to accommodate their gear. They sat beside each other, wedged in between crates of technical equipment that would, apparently, knock out cell signals and scramble CCTV feeds. Alias took shotgun, figuratively and literally, leaving them both alone.

Billy gave a smirk in response. Frank licked his lips, his gaze dropping down to Billy’s lap. They didn’t touch before a job, not usually, but Frank looked as if he were tempted.

Billy couldn’t deny he was a little tempted too. Frank looked good in black.

Frank reached out and touched the tip of his pinkie to the back of Billy’s bare hand.

Which was nothing. It would be absurd to get a shiver, a small rise of gooseflesh down his arm just from that.

The car slowed as they approached and there was no time left for them, no more opportunities to misbehave. A disappointment and a relief.

Frank was in charge. He opened with a canister of tear gas, followed by an explosive round that hit one of the shipping crates just as the sellers began to unload it for their clients.

The Deshauers were already strung up by their nerves after losing so much ground, so many of their allies, over the last month. They were itching for a fight. They opened up on the sellers, who were twitchy by the nature of their business, and the whole thing became a bloodbath.

Billy shot out the tires of their get-away vehicles, the rifle’s kick-back hitting his shoulder like a love tap. The car fell to its axles with a shudder and the people who’d taken shelter behind it—Deshauers or sellers, Billy couldn’t tell and didn’t care—flinched. One went scrambling into the open, where he fell into Billy’s sights. He caught one in the throat for his bad luck.

Frank moved through the dissipating smoke like a shadow. Billy only tracked him by the flash of the gun’s muzzle, by the sounds of screams cut off abruptly, by pained groans and the bone-cracking _thunk_ of metal striking someone down. Smoke curled around his head, around his chest as he killed every unfortunate individual who crossed his path, almost god-like. A divine death dealer come to wreak havoc.

Kitty and Alias were out there somewhere too, probably doing good work. Billy couldn’t say. He found it hard to take his eyes off his boy.

When someone ducked behind Frank with a gun in their hands, taking advantage of Frank’s split-second distraction as he switched his pistol out for a shotgun, Billy took care of it. The would-be killer stumbled back as if he’d been pushed, blood flying from the fresh hole in his chest. Frank half-turned, just long enough to assess that someone had come for him from behind and that someone was no longer a threat, and then resumed his work.

Billy’s hands remained steady, his breathing deep and even, as if he were on the verge of falling asleep, the finger on his trigger never so much as twitching. Once upon a time, he’d been told he was a natural at this.

They left the shipment on the docks, surrounded by the dead. The police would get an anonymous call in five minutes, far too late to save anyone.

Kitty drove peaceably through the streets, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. She merged calmly, followed traffic signals, and got them far away from the carnage and back into the civilized heart of the city just as the sirens started wailing in the distance.

Billy barely noticed. Frank was on him from the moment the van door slid shut and the engine rumbled to life. He had him wedged between their equipment, his back against the now-depleted crates of ammo and hardware, his legs spread and bent, tucked on either side of Frank. Frank braced himself with one hand beside Billy’s head, his other fumbling with clasps and zippers, desperately searching for warm skin under all their gear. Billy held on, sweating under his gear, feeling mean enough to let Frank struggle.

“I knew it was you,” Frank mumbled between kisses. “That shot was so clean. You didn’t even hesitate, did you, baby?”

Billy arched against Frank, groaning quietly, his foot planted against another crate. There wasn’t much room for them, but they’d made out in worse conditions. “One shot, one kill,” Billy managed, breathless, before Frank silenced him again.

In the front seat, Alias turned the radio up as loud as she could. Billy felt the thump of bass through his tailbone. He tightened his grip on the back of Frank’s neck and twisted their tongues together.

Alias practically kicked them out of the back of the moving van as they arrived at the drop-off point. Billy hesitated, reluctant to leave his rifle behind. Only Frank, only the man who’d just killed a half-dozen people, who still smelled like gunsmoke, who still had blood on his face, sprayed up his neck, under his chin, could’ve pulled Billy away. Frank felt just as good, just as deadly in his arms.

Frank found them a hotel. A nice one, too. Billy expressed his appreciation on his knees, wringing an orgasm from Frank that made his legs tremble and his voice choke over Billy’s name.

It was the first time he’d ever done this for Frank. The first time, in fact, he’d done anything like this in a while. That probably wasn’t anything worth examining too closely. Billy didn’t enjoy getting on his knees most of the time. He’d just been in the mood tonight, is all.

Frank pulled at Billy’s clothes, determined to get him naked and repay the favour, but Billy was impatient and hard enough to cut through flint. He pushed Frank down, shoved his bloodied shirt up over his tits.

“Bite this,” he growled, holding the fabric over Frank’s mouth. Frank did, like a good boy, and Billy grabbed a handful of Frank’s chest and took himself in hand.

Frank took care of him, afterwards. He always did. Which was good, because Billy was useless after a good fuck. Lazy and spoiled, he stretched out on the bed, reaching for the jeans he’d tossed over the corner of the mattress, while Frank cleaned them both up.

Frank nosed at his shoulder while Billy flicked his lighter to life. They’d gotten a smoking room this time.

“You smell good,” Frank said.

Billy sighed a plume of smoke, feeling pleasantly warm and recently spent. “You always say that,” he said.

“Yeah, well. It’s always true,” Frank said before kissing the ridge of his collarbone. “You seem like kinda guy who puts work into himself.” Another kiss, a little further from the first.

Billy snorted. “There you go again, tellin’ me about myself. Like you’re so damn clever.” He cupped the back of Frank’s neck, traced his fingers over the bristle of his hairline. He must’ve gotten it buzzed recently.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Frank looked up from Billy’s chest and met his eyes, the look he gave him like a challenge.

Billy huffed, rolled his eyes, and took another drag.

Frank claimed another inch of Billy’s skin with a kiss in celebration. “Anyway, I’m not clever for figurin’ that one out. Anyone can take one look at you and see it.”

Billy blew a smoke ring to the ceiling. “That so?”

“That’s so.” Frank was nearly on top of him, moving closer without Billy even noticing. His lips brushed against the sensitive skin above his clavicle, the dip where his neck met his shoulder. “It’s like you’re trying to appeal to every sense I got.”

Billy sputtered a short laugh, smoke puffing from his nose. “You think I put all this work in just for _you_ , Frankie?”

Frank’s chest pressed against Billy’s side. He could feel the vibration of his voice as soon as he heard it.

“I’m the only other one here, aren’t I?” Frank pressed his lips over Billy’s carotid artery. He slid his hand down to Billy’s hip, fingers pushing into the plush swell of his ass.

Billy traced his fingers lightly down the back of Frank’s neck, tickling the skin under his ear. “I could call someone else,” he said sweetly, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the glass tray on the shelf above his head. “Have ‘em come over. Then it wouldn’t be just for you.”

Frank growled, a vibration Billy could feel up his side, and bit down on Billy’s neck. Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make Billy’s mouth fall open with a sweet gasp. He gripped a tight handful of Frank’s hair.

“You let someone else in this room right now and I’ll kill ‘em,” Frank said, breath hot over Billy’s sensitive skin.

Billy swallowed, arched into Frank’s weight, into his teeth. Frank dragged his tongue across Billy’s throat, down to his pulse. Billy had enough presence of mind to ash out his cigarette before he took Frank’s face with both hands, pulled him up and crushed their lips together, hard enough to feel like a punishment. No doubt Frank’s little love bite would leave a mark. Billy’s toes curled at the thought.

Later still, Billy lay on his stomach, limbs sprawled, muscles twitching, a fresh ring of marks on his neck. Suck bruises and crescent bite marks sitting over his shoulders like a necklace. Frank’s own neck bore similar marks, with the addition of raised, pink lines, criss-crossing his back and chest, because Billy was not above using his nails.

Frank kissed the knot of Billy’s spine, just above ‘ex nihilo’.

“I wanna take you out,” Frank said.

Billy hummed, too tired and satisfied to take in his words.

“Someplace special,” Frank went on, the bridge of his nose tickling the back of Billy’s ear. “Show you a proper good time.”

That, at least, punctured the fog of pleasure that Billy had wrapped himself in. His brows furrowed.

“What, like a date?” he asked, lifting his head from the mattress.

“Yeah, like a date,” Frank said. He had his hand flat over Billy’s shoulder blade; it seemed like he was always touching Billy whenever he was close enough to do it.

Billy pushed himself up onto his elbows, his heart thudding. An alarm sounded somewhere in the back of his head, distant as a foghorn on an unseen shore.

“Why?” he asked.

Frank huffed, looking at Billy like he was the one talking nonsense. “You know why,” he said. “I’ve told you why. I like you.” He rubbed his hand down Billy’s back. “I wanna treat you to something special.”

Billy stared at him. He tried to think of something to say, something cutting and clever, something that would put an end to this absurd turn in the conversation and set them back on the right course. But his mind went blank when Frank met his eyes, his hand heavy and warm on the small of Billy’s back.

This was easy, Billy knew. He could just say no, walk away, and everything would be fine. Frank might keep pushing, but he’d back off eventually. He would follow Billy’s lead.

Then again, a traitorous voice whispered in Billy’s head, Frank would just keep pushing. That could be annoying. That could sour their sex life.

So. Maybe just one date. It couldn’t hurt.

Billy sank back down into Frank’s arms. “What’ve you got in mind, exactly?” he asked, very casually. Frank beamed at him like the dumb son of a bitch he was.

This would be fine, Billy decided. It would be better than fine. He’d go on a stupid date and Frank would get to know Billy and figure out that Billy wasn’t relationship material. Things could go back to normal after that and it’d be Frank who pumped the breaks. Billy wouldn’t have to be the bad guy, wouldn’t have to risk ruining the only good dicking he was getting on the regular.

He genuinely believed this was a good plan.

* * *

Billy was surprised to find himself in a good mood as he picked up his dry cleaning. He liked having an excuse to wear a nice suit, even if it meant he had to put up with two hours of dinner and whatever else Frank had in mind before they could get to the fun part of the night.

He had to admit, at least to himself, that Frank had surprised him when he told Billy to get dressed up. Frank had said that he wanted to take Billy somewhere special, but Billy had assumed he meant someplace special for _Frank_. Maybe take him to a restaurant that where they would bring food to the table or a bar without peanut shells on the floor, that kind of thing.

‘You’ll have to tell me where you live,’ Frank sent him. ‘I need to know where to pick you up.’

Billy hesitated, that same feeling stealing over him the way it had when Frank first asked him out. The sense that he was edging closer to something dangerous, feeling like a predator catching sight of the rope-links of a hunter’s net in the underbrush.

Which was stupid. Frank had his real name and access to the most terrifying hacker Billy had ever met. If Frank had wanted his address, Billy realised, he could’ve gotten it.

Billy gave it to him and dismissed any further thoughts and feelings on the matter from his head.

The last suit he’d worn had been some second-hand thing that’d probably only seen wear at weddings and funerals. On top of that, he’d had to deal with Pryce’s hands on him, getting his dime-store cop stink all over him. He didn’t regret bleeding Pryce like a stuck pig (Billy was a sucker for poetic justice) but he did feel a little bad about what happened to the suit. It’d probably deserved better than the end it came to.

Tonight would be better. No risk of ruining this one with blood. Well. Minimal risk.

And, Billy thought as he slid his burgundy tie around his neck, he would enjoy himself even more when it came time to take the suit off. Frank wasn’t some limp-dick cop who thought being rough was a good substitute for foreplay.

Billy’s phone rumbled just as he dabbed his scent behind his ears. Frank had arrived exactly on time. Billy clicked the screen off, set his phone back onto his dresser, and resumed getting ready.

Billy emerged from his building a little over five minutes later, his beard freshly trimmed, his capped oxfords shined, and his hair perfectly styled.

Frank stood on the curb, leaning against what looked like a black Jaguar. He was dressed up in a black button-up, blue suit jacket with matching slacks, and shiny black loafers. It was a little loud, a little more audacious than what other men might’ve tried, but it worked on Frank. He wore no tie and the first few buttons of his shirt undone, his collar gaping open to reveal faded ink crawling up his neck.

He looked good. Maybe a little better than good, if Billy was being honest about it.

Frank smiled at Billy. Even though Frank was wearing sunglasses, Billy could tell he was being given the once-over.

“Hey, beautiful.” He took Billy’s arm, cupped the back of his head and gave him a brief kiss. “You look amazing.” Frank didn’t sound surprised, just pleased.

Billy realised that he hadn’t said a word. He’d barely blinked. Warmth surged to his cheeks, hopefully not obvious under his tinted moisturizer.

Frank’s lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh. So much for that.

Billy recovered quickly (but not as quickly as he should’ve, dammit) and gave Frank a cool look. “You look presentable,” he said.

“That’s what I aim for,” Frank said. He popped the passenger side door open and guided Billy inside with a hand at his elbow.

“Nice car,” Billy said, although he had no idea. It was one of those cars that’d been built low to the ground, all sharp and sleek as the edge of a blade. The inside dashboard was lit up, looking like the flight console of a spaceship. Billy didn’t know cars but he knew style.

To his confusion and slight humiliation, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Thanks,” Frank said. He thumbed the ignition button and the engine purred to life. Music filled the space, loud enough to hurt, bass thumping under the seats, for a split second before Frank lurched forward and stabbed the touch-screen with his fingers. The sound shrank and died.

Frank sat back, leather seat creaking under his weight. He rubbed his hand over his chin and smiled sheepishly. “Whoops,” he said.

Billy realised that Frank was _nervous_. That was good. It meant Billy didn’t have to be.

He settled back in his seat with a smile, pulled his glasses from his inner pocket and put them on.

* * *

“I honestly cannot remember the last time I went out on a date,” Billy said as the car prowled through the evening traffic.

“That makes me sad,” Frank said. “And a little angry.”

He knew the city’s layout well enough to avoid the worst of the congestion, taking them down side-lanes and one-way streets where other cars would be scarce. Billy could tell they were going south—Billy lived uptown, where apartment buildings sat like spires among the sprawling, family-friendly suburbs —and he could guess they were going towards the city centre, but he was lost beyond that. And Frank wasn’t telling.

“You’ll figure it out when we get there,” he said instead.

“It better not be anything shitty,” Billy said, crossing his legs. “If you’re takin’ me to the fairgrounds or something lame like that, you will never see me naked again.”

“The exhibition’s not in town ‘til September,” Frank said. Billy examined his profile but couldn’t pull any meaning from what he saw. Frank looked at ease. Billy drummed his fingers against his knee.

“Is it a bar?” Billy asked. Frank just smiled. “A casino? A race track?”

“A little mystery is romantic. Quit trying to guess,” Frank said.

Billy’s shoulders twitched like he’d been hit with a pebble at the word ‘romantic’.

Frank didn’t seem to notice. He flicked his turn signal and guided them down another laneway. Tall buildings grew from the horizon, crowding out the golden sky. The sidewalks were getting narrower, and the roads were in worse shape. Cracked pavement with bad asphalt patch-jobs, street signs tagged with black spray and shiny stickers, shop fronts lurking close to the road with nothing but dust and grime in their windows.

Billy sucked at his lower lip, tasting peppermint. “I bet it’s somethin’ goofy. Interactive. You seem like the type,” he said. Frank just shook his head. “A golf course? That’d be hilarious, you on a golf course. Suppose it’s too late in the day, though. It better not be mini-golf. A bowling alley? I am telling you right now, I am not putting on a pair of communal shoes.”

“Talk all you want, you’re not getting anything from me,” Frank said. Evening lights came on, splashing over the shiny hood of Frank’s car.

“I have a singular talent for getting what I want out of people,” Billy said with a smile. “Especially you.”

Frank’s lips twitched but he said nothing.

“Fine.” Billy sat back. “I’ll keep guessin’, then. Is it a sports game? I think there’s a basketball game tonight. It had better not be hockey.”

 “What’s wrong with a hockey game?” Frank asked, sparing him a wounded glance.

“They’re lame,” Billy said with a dismissive flick of his fingers.

“I like takin’ a date to a hockey game. It’s chilly enough that you can get cozy together,” Frank said.

“It’s noisy,” Billy said. “All that cheering bounces off the ice. Gives me a headache.”

“People get hurt in hockey games,” Frank pointed out. “You have better chance seeing blood on the rink than on the court.”

Billy conceded that point with a sniff.

The landscape was changing around them; old storefronts replaced with shining picture windows filled with white light and expensive clothing, Starbucks and trendy restaurants. The tall buildings of the financial and tourism district lurked ahead, puncturing the darkening sky like blades of glass, too close to see in full.

“I used to go to Rangers games,” Frank said.

“That’s the least surprising thing I’ve heard all day,” Billy said.

“Don’t tell me you never went.”

Billy smoothed the fabric of his slacks down over his thighs. “Once. When I was eighteen. A friend I had took me. It was loud and cold and no one got hurt.”

Billy went quiet, ignoring the phantom pulling at his thoughts. The gentle rumble of the engine filled the car. Frank looked over but Billy stared resolutely ahead, arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s a waterpark,” Frank said at last.

Billy huffed. “I will stab you.”

* * *

They wound up bumper-to-bumper as they approached the entertainment district and, for a moment, Billy wondered if Frank actually did intend to drag him to a hockey game.

Instead, the car turned before they could hit the worst of the core, heading further east towards where the river bisected the city. They ended up in what used to be a complex of candy and bottling factories but had since become a gentrified art-scape, filled with independent galleries and, Billy realised with a sinking stomach, theatres.

“You takin’ me to see a show?” Billy asked as they pulled into a public lot. Frank killed the engine and smiled.

He took Billy’s arm and led him to an old, red brick house, built on the corner. It was an old foreman’s home, according to the plaque staked into the front garden, but had since been declared a historic monument and converted into a theatre space. The bill out front advertised only one show: One Last Night.

Billy frowned. The name rang distant bells, although he couldn’t say why. He hadn’t so much as looked at a playbill in his life.

There were about fifteen people milling in the lobby, loitering hopefully in front of a ticket booth. A woman in a domino mask placed a sign that said ‘NO RUSH TICKETS’ in the window and the crowd erupted in groans and curses.

Frank pulled him past the disappointed mob to a podium with another young woman wearing a jewelled mask over her eyes.

“Is this a sex thing?” Billy asked in an undertone as the woman examined their tickets.

“It’s not supposed to be,” Frank whispered back.

“Gentlemen,” the woman said with a bright smile. “Welcome to the Hotel Victoria. The evening’s soiree has already begun and the guests are already arriving. If you just follow the signs past the curtains, you’ll find the hotel bar. Here are your drink tickets.”

Billy perked up at that. Frank patted his hand and led him through the curtained entrance.

“Don’t forget to pick up your mask,” the woman called after them.

“Are you sure this isn’t a sex thing?” Billy asked as they arrived at a table with black masks set up in a row. “This feels like a sex thing.”

“I never liked sex clubs,” Frank said as he picked up a half-mask. They were all more or less alike; each one looking like someone had hooked their thumb under the mask’s nose and stretched it out while the plastic was still warm. The resulting face looked a bit like a bird’s skull, with long, narrow eyes.

“They always depress me. They smell like bleach and the drinks are never any good. Here.” He handed Billy a mask that looked, to Billy’s eyes, the same as all the others. “This one’d suit you.”

Billy took his word for it. He put on his mask, taking care not to upset his hairstyle.

Frank leaned over the table to make his selection and Billy caught a whiff of wood smoke. He blinked, caught by surprise. Was Frank actually wearing cologne? Decent cologne? The beak of his mask made investigating this situation difficult. He settled for taking Frank’s offered arm.

The ‘hotel bar’ looked like someone had converted their private drawing room. It was a small space. There was a bar with a single tender, a billiards table, and a few cruiser tables pushed towards the walls. Candles flickered in amber votives, glowing like dying stars in the gloom.

There were other guests, most of them wearing the same black, beaked masks and their finest evening wear (which weren’t that fine, in Billy’s opinion; one man’s shiny grey suit looked so boxy, Billy could’ve folded it up and used it to move to a new apartment).

A few people, however, weren’t wearing masks.

Billy traded his ticket for an Old Fashioned. Frank leaned both arms against the bar beside him, close enough to touch, and ordered a beer.

One of the maskless people had started to talk to one of the others. It sounded like an argument. Feeling emboldened by the anonymity his mask provided, Billy eavesdropped. Apparently, someone was having an affair.

“This is a sex thing,” Billy said quietly. Frank nudged him.

“It’s not,” he said. “The sex part of our evening will be a private show, I promise you.”

Billy sniffed his drink and took a sip. It wasn’t bad.

“You’re soundin’ awfully confident,” Billy said.

Frank smiled under the shadow of his mask. He took a swig of his beer, and Billy, still feeling bold, watched those lips as they wrapped around the mouth of the bottle.

“You like my confidence,” Frank said.

The two maskless people—two women, one older and showing it, the other young and painfully earnest—raised their voices, started talking over each other. Billy tried to pay attention, but his mind was still on Frank’s gorgeous, pink mouth.

“Maybe. Maybe I like your humility better.” He leaned into Frank’s space, tipped his head towards him. “Maybe if you get on your knees and ask me nicely, I could be convinced.”

Frank drew his finger down the curve of Billy’s arm. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

The older woman threw her drink into the younger woman’s face. A few people gasped.

It wasn’t a sex thing. It was a play.

It wasn’t like any play Billy had ever gone to. There was no stage, as far as he could tell. Or maybe the audience shared the stage with the performers. There were rules about what they could do, which Billy was made aware of when an usher approached him for edging a little too close to the earnest young woman. They could not touch or speak to the performers and they could not interrupt a scene. They were, for all intents and purposes, phantoms.

There were ten performers in all; four men, six women. The plot was difficult to follow. Scenes happened simultaneously, often in different rooms and it was left to the audience to follow what they could. Billy stuck close to the young woman (whose character’s name was Chantal) because he recognized the look in her too-big, too-shiny eyes. The man she was in love with was cruel to her. The man she slept with (a different man than the one she loved) was dismissive of her. The old woman had disowned her.

Her make-up got smudged as the night went on. She cried like a child who’d been taught there were consequences to making too much noise; with her chin tight and trembling, chest heaving, nostrils flaring, eyes wide and unblinking even as they leaked mascara in black trails down her cheeks. Silent as a mouse.

At one point, Billy and Frank were separated, drawn apart by the plot threads they tried to follow (Frank was interested in the old woman, who was carrying on with a beautiful young man), and by the guidance of their ushers. Billy found himself alone in a room with Chantal.

He expected a monologue but she stayed silent. She stared at her reflection, touched the dark smudges on her sticky cheeks, her lips parting. As if she were fascinated by the sight, the beauty of her own misery.

She opened a lacquered jewellery box on top of her dresser and pulled out a small pistol. She held it carefully, but not gingerly. She checked the barrel, sniffed once, snapped it shut and tucked it into her clutch.

If Billy were allowed to speak, he would’ve suggested a knife. More personal that way.

The night ended in a bloodbath, as all tragedies must. Chantal was not the only one packing.

Billy’s girl fought good and hard to her last bullet, plugging her cruel lover in the stomach while the man she truly loved watched in horror. (Frank told Billy later that the two men had been fucking too.)

Chantal’s lover stabbed her breast, and the white spotlight on her face turned red. He embraced her while she choked, her breath rattling. Billy looked away and finished his drink.

They emerged from the theatre and into the warm night without speaking. Frank held Billy’s arm tightly. Billy felt strangely exposed without his mask. He’d briefly considered stealing it but the ushers had watched them closely as they left and it didn’t seem worth it.

Gravel crunched under his heel as they crossed the street. The district was mostly silent at this time of night. Few people on the sidewalk and fewer cars on the road. Moths crowded the lamps, swirling around the light, bouncing their bodies off of glass bulbs.

“That wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” Billy said at last as they approached the car.

“Yeah,” Frank said. “Sorry about Chantal.”

Billy shrugged. “She was dead the minute she fell for whatshisface.”

“Nathan,” Frank said. He gave Billy a funny look. “That’s bleak. Is that what you think happens to people who fall in love?”

“If they’re in a tragedy, yeah,” Billy said. He leaned against the passenger door. “Don’t dig for deeper meaning here, Frankie. Nothing good happens to lovers in most stories, but tragedies? Forget it. Might as well be introduced with a rope necklace.”

“I guess,” Frank conceded. “I don’t really watch a lot of plays.”

“Then why’d you take me to one?” Billy asked. Frank shrugged, smiled.

“You’re always reading on your phone. Figured you might like a story,” he said. “And anyway, this is supposed to be the best show in town.”

Billy frowned, his brow furrowing. “Wait, wait… One Last Night… I did hear about this,” he said.

“It’s supposed to be pretty famous,” Frank said.

“Aren’t tickets impossible to get?” Billy asked as the memory finally slid into place. An old acquaintance and fence asking Billy if he was interested in a pair of scalped tickets. “The show’s supposed to be booked months in advanced, right? Rush tickets are basically a lottery?” he asked.

Frank tapped in his numbered code on the driver’s side door. “Are they?” The locks clicked.

“I am confident they are,” Billy said. Frank just shrugged again. “Hey.” Billy leaned over the roof of the car. “How’d you get tickets?”

Frank opened his door and looked up with a smile. “Magic,” he said.

Billy scowled. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. I waved my magic wand and asked a genie to grant me one wish. Give me tickets to something that you would enjoy,” he said and slid into his seat.

“I didn’t say I enjoyed it,” Billy grumbled as he opened his door. “Where to now?” he asked as he sat down. “Or is that another secret?”

Frank adjusted his mirror and gave Billy a brief, lopsided smile. Billy rolled his eyes and leaned his elbow against the armrest.

“It’d better be dinner,” he said.

“Just relax,” Frank said as the engine purred under their feet. “Let me surprise you. You might actually enjoy it.”

* * *

Billy had no idea where Frank had taken him. He dimly recognized this part of the city, but only through orienting himself by the more familiar landmarks now behind them. He’d spent most of the past year either haunting the sparse amenities of his own neighbourhood or in the more popular, upscale night-life areas. He was unfamiliar with the up-and-coming places, the artsy ‘hoods that hadn’t quite been gentrified, but were on their way.

The restaurant didn’t even look like a restaurant. It sat on the corner of a residential street, close to a dark, institutional-looking bulk that might’ve been a school. Billy gave Frank a side-ways look.

“This better not be some sketchy, back-alley operation you’re takin’ me to,” he said.

“That hurts. You still have so little faith in me?” Frank asked as he walked them up to the front door.

Billy could hear muted conversation coming from within, and the clatter of cutlery on flatware. “I’m just sayin’, I could’ve gotten a home cooked meal from anywhere.”

Frank locked eyes with Billy and knocked out what sounded like a very specific rhythm. Billy heard shuffling and, a moment later, the door cracked open. A face peered at them from the gloom.

“Yes?” she said.

“Frank Castle,” Frank said. “I’m a friend of Marcie’s.”

“Is _this_ a sex thing?” Billy asked in a voice that wasn’t quiet enough. Frank patted his arm. The face glared at him.

The door opened and the woman there led them through what looked very much like someone’s private home, although Billy caught sight of a dining room with ten tables and around twenty diners. She guided them up a set of stairs, through another hall, up another set of narrow stairs, until finally she pushed a flimsy metal door open with a screech on its hinges, and ushered them onto a roof-top terrace.

The place was a riot of greenery, of glossy, tropical-looking plants spilling out of long clay troughs. Candles had been placed around the sunken centre of the terrace, where a low table sat, surrounded by flat, colourful pillows. A bottle of wine, chilling in a bucket of ice, and two glasses waited for them.

Billy had only ever seen a set-up like this in travel magazines. He realised his eyebrows were high and his lips parted, exposing his surprise and pleasure, just a moment too late. Frank grinned at him. Billy schooled his expression and re-established his cool, refined air as Frank took his arm and helped him down to the table.

“Admit it,” Frank said, his breath warm against Billy’s ear. “You’re impressed.”

Billy gave him what should’ve been an inscrutable look. Frank just smiled wider, like he’d been given a prize.

“I’ll let Marcie know that you’re here,” their guide said as she poured them each a measure of sparkling wine.

“Appreciate it,” Frank said. He raised his glass towards Billy, who was still settling in among the pillows.

 “A toast,” Frank said as Billy plucked his glass from the table.

“To what?” Billy asked. “And, keep in mind, I’m gonna judge your answer.”

“You’ve been judging me all night,” Frank said, not looking at all bothered. Like he was confident that he hadn’t been found wanting.

Billy didn’t reply to that. Even admitting to himself that he’d been impressed with Frank felt risky.

“C’mon, tick tock. I wanna drink,” he said instead.

Frank gave Billy a grin. He had nice eyes. It wasn’t the first time Billy had noticed them, although he tried not to pay close attention to those kinds of thoughts. But it was true. Frank had nice eyes. Warm and brown, like caramel, surrounded by deep, shadowed hollows and framed with a heavy brow. Billy had been fascinated watching the way he could turn that warm expression into a killing look with just a tilt of his head.

“To you,” Frank said. Billy scoffed.

“Not exactly rewriting the playbook, are you?” he asked before taking a drink.

“Classics are classic for a reason,” Frank said.

He had a nice face, Billy thought. He possessed a unique kind of handsomeness. Frank wasn’t about to grace the cover of a magazine any time soon but he wasn’t ugly. He looked particularly good in the candlelight. A nice, sturdy jaw. Good, sharp cheekbones. And those lips…

“You use a lot of classics,” Billy said, forcing his thoughts down a safer path.

“I guess so.” Frank sipped his wine.

“Unoriginal,” Billy said.

Frank’s nose twitched. “Don’t act like it doesn’t work on you.”

“What makes you think it does?” Billy challenged. “You keep talkin’ like you know me.”

“I do know you,” Frank said.

Billy laughed. “Like hell. You don’t know shit about me.”

“I do.” Frank swirled the wine still left in the belly of his glass. “I know more than you might be comfortable with.”

Billy tipped his head back, smiling in disbelief. “Oh, bull _shit_. Like anything you could say to me would make me uncomfortable. Alright, hot shot.” He straightened the hang of his shoulders and leaned forward. “Hit me. Tell me all about myself.”

Frank didn’t immediately respond. His expression was difficult to read in the flickering light. He had his lips pressed together, looking as if he were actually giving this some thought.

Finally, he finished the last of his wine and leaned forward. “Alright,” he said. “You’re guarded. That’s no secret and I don’t feel particularly smart for figurin’ it out, but it’s true and you may not realise how obvious you are about it.”

Billy sniffed dismissively. “That’s just the nature of our business. Everyone’s gotta protect themselves.”

“Nah. Not like you,” Frank assured with a shake of his head. “I’m guessing you’ve always been like this.”

Billy smiled. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that if you want to get under my skin. What else’ve you got for me, tough guy?”

“You’re a hedonist,” Frank said.

“Who taught you that word?” Billy asked.

“You’ve practically made it your hobby,” Frank went on, ignoring the jab. “But you’re only after the physical stuff.”

Billy’s brow furrowed. “Uh. Yeah? What else is there?”

Frank sighed quietly and poured himself another drink. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. I don’t know if it’s been by choice or if it’s just the shitty people you’ve been with before, but you haven’t known much romance in your life.”

“I’m startin’ to feel like I’m getting my fortune told,” Billy said. “Are you gonna tell me when my Prince Charming is gonna sweep me off my feet? How about my lucky numbers?”

“You talk more when you’re nervous,” Frank said. “You get meaner, too.”

Billy’s lips twisted. He felt Frank’s words land with a prickle under his skin. “I’m always mean,” he said. “Anyway, I wanna go back to that other thing. The romance thing. What makes you so sure of yourself? I mean…” He sat back, stretching out his long torso. “Look at me. You really think I haven’t been wined and dined?”

“I already told you, that’s just the physical stuff. I wasn’t talking about that,” Frank said. “I bet there’s lots of people have pulled out the stops to impress you, but that’s just feeding into your hedonism. I’m talking about romance.”

Billy stared at him. “Like… flowers and shit?”

Frank looked disappointed. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about. It pisses me off no one’s ever really tried to fill you in on what you’re missing.”

Billy could tolerate a lot of things. People’s opinions of him rarely mattered beyond securing whatever he needed from them. He didn’t care if someone thought he was an asshole, or a whore, or a psycho. Or a monster. He’d worked pretty hard over the last twenty or so years to be seen as all that and worse.

But he never liked pity. He liked it less in Frank. He flexed his jaw.

“ _Missing_ , huh. I guess your life’s been full of romance, has it?” he asked, forcing himself to recover.

“It has,” Frank said.

“Right. That girl who crushed your heart,” Billy said.

Frank swallowed another mouthful. “She did.”

“So, you think… what? That makes you the expert? Oh, Frank.” Billy relished the opportunity to coat his words with sympathy, thick and sweet as syrup. “You’re so fucking cute. Did she make you cry?”

Frank sent him a look over the table that he couldn’t interpret. He narrowed his eyes and tipped his head back. “She did,” he said, voice flat and even.

Billy smiled back, cruel.

“I thought she killed me, you know? I’ve been shot, stabbed, burnt, bruised and beaten half to death. I’ve sat in tattoo chairs for more than 20 hours of my life, total.” Frank huffed. “But that was nothing. I’d never experienced anything like the pain she gave me. It was terrifying.”

Billy tried to keep his smile in place but Frank looked at him, so exposed and honest, without a hint of weakness in his expression. Frank’s gaze was like a snare. Billy could barely blink.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to feel like that again,” Frank said, lowering his gaze at last.

The grip on Billy’s neck loosened and he felt he could breathe again. “Why would you want to?” he asked, more confused than withering.

Frank considered his reply as he watched the bubbles crawl up the inside of his glass. “Because when it was good, it was better than anything I’d ever known,” he said, reaching for the bottle again. “Bein’ with her… it felt like a dream.” He poured Billy another glass. “Like the way it was in songs.”

“Did she complete you?” Billy asked with a sneer.

Frank laughed. “Nah. Nah, nothing like that. She… she complemented me. When I was with her, I felt like a better version of myself. I wanted to do things I’d never done just because they made her happy. I learned how to cook primavera for our first anniversary. She didn’t even ask me but I knew it was her favourite. I’d never done anything like that before, for anyone. Christ, she was so surprised…” He trailed off, smile fading. “I woke up each morning feelin’ like the luckiest man in the world, just because I was waking up beside her.”

Billy’s mouth went dry, his throat tight. He reached for his glass and took a long drink. “Bullshit,” he said, voice strained around the swallow.

Frank just laughed, brief and soft. “You’d know it wasn’t if you’d ever had it yourself. See, that’s what pisses me off. Someone should’ve felt like that about you. Someone like you should’ve driven people crazy. People should’ve been lining up to better themselves for you. Just to see you smile. You should have a trail of broken hearts behind you.”

Billy drew his fingers down the stem of his glass, feeling like maybe he was starting to regain his grip on this conversation. Frank didn’t know shit. He could call Frank a liar. He could make a joke.

He drew his tongue across his lip. “Good looks aren’t a guarantee of… of whatever the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

Frank’s honey brown eyes went soft. “I’m not talking about your looks, sweetheart.”

Billy’s breathing hitched, although he kept his face perfectly impassive. Frank edged forward, knocking their knees lightly together.

“The good things you deserve have got nothin’ to do with your looks.” He reached out and touched his finger to the top of Billy’s hand. “It’s cause you’re special.”

Bullshit, Billy thought. The word couldn’t squeeze past the lump forming in his throat. He looked down at Frank’s hand.

“The way it was with Maria… I didn’t think I’d ever feel like that again,” Frank said and Billy wished, with a sudden desperation, that he’d never asked. “I’m startin’ to think I was wrong.”

Billy tried to swallow. He felt like a summer’s day: too warm, too bright, baking inside and out. He needed to save this. He needed to stop it. He needed a time machine, to go back before they sat down, before he said ‘yes’ to this date, before he said ‘yes’ to Frank the first time, all because Frank had said ‘please’. All because getting a man like Frank to beg, even a little, had felt like a victory. Billy realised now, far too late, that this situation was not as controlled as he’d thought.

Worse. That it felt familiar.

“You really think I’ve never had my heart broken before?” Billy asked quietly.

Frank blinked, a line forming between his brows. He squinted at Billy, leaned forward, searched his expression. Terror clenched cold teeth into Billy’s throat by what Frank might find when he looked into his eyes. Frank opened his mouth and Billy’s heart knocked against his chest.

The door burst open, saving them both. “Frank!” A woman dressed in chef’s whites emerged, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing toned and tattooed arms.

“Hey hey, Marcie.” Frank stood up and embraced her briefly. She thudded his back, producing a loud thump.

Billy sat back with a quiet sigh of relief and picked up his glass.

“Sit down, sit down. I can’t stay too long, I gotta give a little speech downstairs, but I just wanted to come up and see how you were doin’,” Marcie said as Frank reclaimed his seat. “You like the wine? I got some bread coming up soon with your food. Freshly made this evening. The bread, I mean; the tagine’s been stewing all day. Is this him?”

“Nah, this is someone I picked up off the street,” Frank said. “Pretty good though, right?”

“I’ll say.” Marcie gave Billy an appraising look. Billy returned it with an easy smile. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Marcie. I own this place.”

“Billy,” Billy said, taking it without standing up. “Is this your house?”

She gave him a funny look. “It’s actually the sous-chef’s place. We bought it together a year ago. Do you know where you are?”

Billy glanced at Frank without turning his head. “I… Missed the name on the door.”

“This is Antler,” she said and said no more, as if she were waiting for the penny to drop.

Billy stared at her. A moment later, it did. “Wait…” he said, sitting up. “Wait, wait, wait. _This_ is Antler? The secret dinner club that no one can get a reservation to?”

“We’re not exactly a dinner club,” Marcie said with a scoff.

“You only serve twenty people a night,” Billy said.

“Twenty-two tonight,” Marcie corrected, her eyes gleaming with candlelight. “You two are the guinea pigs for a new VIP package I’m thinking of selling. A romantic, rooftop, candlelit dinner with a special menu. I’m gonna need your honest opinions, so don’t hold back.”

“How did you manage this?” Billy asked, turning to Frank. Frank shrugged.

“Frank and I used to fuck,” Marcie said.

“Don’t you have a kitchen to run, Marcie?” Frank asked.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Marcie said to Billy. “That stamina, am I right? I swear, I’d need crutches the morning after a night with Frank.”

“Thanks, Marcie,” Frank said loudly while Billy laughed.

“Yeah, you should be thanking me,” Marcie said as the door swung open and two servers swept in, each laden with serving trays. “Your dinner’s here. Hope you like Moroccan food.”

“Dunno,” Billy said as they set down trays of bread, olives, dips, and a massive clay pot. “I’ve had couscous before.”

Marcie just waved and shouted a quick “Enjoy!” before ducking back inside. Her servers followed soon after, but not before removing their spent wine and replacing it with a fresh bottle of red. Soon enough, they were alone again.

“So, do we just… dig in?” Billy asked, craning his neck. “I don’t recognize half these dishes. I get these are olives,” he said, nudging a small plate. “And this is bread. But I don’t know what these dipping sauces are.”

“I think this is hummus.” Frank picked up a slice of bread and dunked it into a silver tray of tan-coloured puree. He ate it in two bites and nodded. “That’s good hummus. Just dig in,” he said. “If Marcie made it, it’s bound to be good.”

Billy shook his head and reached for the bread basket. “Can’t believe you’re friends with the head chef of Antler. This city won’t shut up about this place and you just… casually get us in here.”

“She owed me a favour.” Frank pulled the cover from the clay pot, revealing a cloud of steam that smelled like pure, spiced heaven.

“Oh, hell-oh.” Billy leaned closer, his mouth watering. “Is that lamb?” He spooned a bit directly from the pot, very impatiently blew on it once, and took a bite.

It was lamb. So tender it practically melted in his mouth. Billy moaned quietly.

“Want me to leave you two alone?” Frank asked, eyes gleaming.

“Yes,” Billy said, reaching for another spoonful.

“Tough,” Frank said, tearing off another piece of bread. “You’re stuck with me, beautiful.”

Billy’s chewing slowed. He thought about what Frank had said to him earlier, all those feelings he was apparently having for Billy. Because of Billy. It settled in his mind like sand at the bottom of a lake, too insubstantial to sit still, easily stirred up again by the slightest movement. He didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t even know if he believed it.

But Frank had looked so honest, so open. Like he had nothing to protect from Billy.

Which was insane. Worse, it was an invitation to get hurt. Who could live like that? Billy reached for his wine.

“Too bad,” he said after a swallow. “I guess I’ll just make do.”

Frank smiled at him, the lines around his eyes bunching together. Billy felt it like a flick to his chest, under his ribcage.

* * *

Marcie came up to find them again two hours later, when the candles were burning down to stubs, the bread had finally run out, and most of the dishes were picked clean. Frank showered her with effusive praise, starting from the setting and ending with the wine pairing. Billy chimed in with a smile and a few kind words—he’d particularly enjoyed the wine.

He’d enjoyed it quite a bit more than Frank, who—after that first awkward conversation about his ex-girlfriend, this ‘Maria’ of his—had slowed down his intake considerably.

When it came time to leave, Marcie pulled Frank aside and said something in a voice too low to eavesdrop on (although that did not stop Billy from trying). Frank laughed at whatever it was she said, his face flushed, and patted her on the shoulder.

“Come on,” he said, taking Billy by the arm. “I’ve been told we gotta walk.”

“Wait…” Billy craned his neck, staring at the sleek sports car parked on the curb. “What about…?”

“Marcie’s got my keys, she’ll take care of it. And we’re not too far,” Frank said.

Billy leaned his weight into Frank as he led them down the residential street, past colourful old Victorian row houses.

Billy wasn’t drunk, he knew he wasn’t drunk, but the wine’d had an effect on him. He felt that familiar lightness, that airiness in his limbs and inside his head, as if the blood in his veins had started to fizz.

“Where are you takin’ me next?” Billy asked. “No, hang on, you probably won’t tell me. I’ll guess. Is it… The W Hotel? Orrr… Paris? Are you gonna take me to Paris, Frank?”

Frank huffed, smiling. The air was warm and fragrant with recent blooms. The trees on this street had all burst into leaf, smothering the sky with green, but more than a few were flowering, thin branches drenched with white and pink petals. Oleanders, magnolias, and apple blossoms sat on the scant front lawns allowed by city living, bedecked with heavy crowns of glossy petals, all of them looking ready to shed. Summer was on its way.

“You want to go to Paris?” Frank asked.

Billy shrugged. “I’ve never been. If I say yes, would you take me?”

“I might,” Frank said. He pulled Billy’s hand toward him, took it in both of his, and rubbed his thumb across Billy’s pink knuckles.

Billy grinned at him, strands of his hair falling loose over his forehead. “Tonight?” he asked, lifting a brow.

“I might,” Frank said. He brought Billy’s hand to his lips.

“You’d make miracles happen for me, huh? If I asked for them?” he asked. Frank smiled, his breath warm against the back of Billy’s hand, and kissed him again. “How about it, Jimmy Stewart? Would you lasso the moon for me?”

Frank’s lips parted on his next kiss, pressing the tip of his tongue against the skin on the back of Billy’s hand.

Frank was right about Billy, and Billy was feeling generous enough to admit it inside his own head. He _was_ a hedonist. After the kind of childhood he’d had, he felt the world owed him. He drank expensive booze, smoked good cigars, wore designer jeans and leather jackets. He fucked as many people as he pleased, sometimes at the same time, in any position he wanted.

All of this was to say that a simple kiss on the back of his hand, even with the barest hint of tongue, shouldn’t have done anything for Billy. It definitely shouldn’t have sent a line of gooseflesh down his arm. A shiver he felt under his skin.

Frank caught his eye. Like he knew. Billy swallowed.

“I told you before,” Frank said, pulling them to a stop. “I’d do whatever you want me to do. Kill whoever you want me to kill. Blow up important buildings, take you out to the hottest places, buy you the nicest clothes, drinks, food, whatever you want. Anything you want.” He put his hand to the side of Billy’s face, cupping his jaw, fingers light against the skin under his ear. “As long as you let me touch you.”

Billy’s throat dried out. He kissed Frank.

He could feel Frank’s smile as his lips parted. He licked Billy’s lower lip, his hand sliding around to hold the back of Billy’s neck. Billy pet Frank’s tongue with his own, sliding against him with a wet, obscene sound that sent another shiver down his spine. His nose filled with the scent of Frank’s products, the woodsmoke and musk scent that’d caught his attention hours before. He felt Frank’s beard on his own stubbled cheek, brush against his nose. Billy nibbled at his lips, felt more than heard Frank’s moan.

“What do you want from me, sweetheart?” Frank asked once they’d broken apart, his exhales puffing against Billy’s spit-slick lips. “Anything you want. Name it.”

 _You_. The word bubbled in Billy’s mind, too quick to put down in time. He swallowed it back before it could escape his mouth as a voice, making it real.

(As if it was unreal, just because he’d kept it locked away. As if Frank couldn’t see it, the way he saw everything else.)

Instead, Billy said: “I want a bed.” He kissed Frank again, leaning his weight into him just to feel Frank bend and take it. “I want you inside of me.”

Frank growled, his fingers pressing hard into Billy’s neck, his other hand pulling at Billy’s jacket, bunching the fabric inside his fist.

“I can do that,” he said before reclaiming Billy’s mouth.

They stumbled a few more blocks, uncoordinated and driven to desperation from lust rather than from the drink (although the drink probably didn’t help). They made slow progress, slower than Billy would’ve liked, because Frank wouldn’t stop touching him. He slipped his fingers under the cuff of Billy’s shirt, he slid his hand around his neck, pulled at his tie, rubbed his thumb over Billy’s lips.

Billy didn’t pay much attention to where they were going. By the time they arrived at wherever it was Frank was taking them, Billy was wrapped in Frank’s arms, kissing his perfect mouth. He felt a door at his back, dimly heard a jingle of keys, and felt Frank’s hands pull his shirt from his slacks. The door opened, finally. Billy took Frank by his lapels and dragged him inside.

Billy would later claim complete ignorance. He would blame it on the wine, on the lust clouding his thoughts. When he felt a chair leg knock against the back of his calf as Frank walked him through what might’ve been a dining room, Billy didn’t even spare it a glance. He couldn’t bring himself to look at anything other than Frank, whose beautiful face was just visible in the faint blue light from outside.

Frank, whose big hands were hot and surprisingly careful as he worked the buttons of Billy’s shirt open, as he slid Billy’s silk tie loose from its knot. Who was looking at Billy like he didn’t want to look at anything else, ever again.

Billy didn’t think about anything beyond Frank’s hands, his lips, his eyes, until he felt the edge of a mattress hit the back of his knees. He sat down hard, his shirt finally open and his belt loose. Frank took him apart with the same precision and expertise he’d use on his guns. He grabbed, lifted, and spread Billy’s legs and pushed him up the bed. He lowered himself over Billy, giving just enough of his weight to keep him where he wanted him.

“You,” Frank said before diving in for a burning kiss. “Are beautiful.”

Billy laughed, his chest brushing against Frank’s, as he pulled Frank’s shirt down his shoulders. Frank shifted, and pulled it the rest of the way off, tossing it over the side of the bed. He cupped Billy’s face and kissed his throat.

“You always say that,” Billy said with a sigh. He dragged his fingers down Frank’s inked back. He felt a stab of disappointment that he couldn’t feel any of the marks he’d left before. He spread his legs wider as Frank settled between them and decided he would just have to make new ones.

“It’s always true,” Frank said. “Beautiful in every way.”

Billy laughed again. “Fuck, you’re embarrassing. And wrong,” he added, skimming his fingers down Frank’s spine.

“Nah.” Frank kissed Billy’s throat. “I told you already. I know you.” He slid his hands down to Billy’s hips, blunt nails digging into soft skin. “I know who you are.” He raised his head, leaned over Billy until they were face to face, his hands gripping Billy’s waist.

He looked Billy in the eyes. There wasn’t much light—just what little came in from the windows at the head of the bed—but Billy could see enough.

The way Frank looked at him. The way he’d been looking at him this whole time.

Billy swallowed, his dry throat clicking. His hands rested over the wings of Frank’s shoulders.

“You’re gonna be mine, Billy Russo,” Frank said, voice too rough to be a whisper. He pushed their hips together, dragged the burning line of his cock over the inside of Billy’s thigh. He lowered himself onto Billy, their noses bumping, so close that Billy could feel Frank’s lips against his as he spoke. “I’m gonna make you mine.”

Billy would blame it on the wine. He would blame it on his dick, which sat so painfully hard and hot on his stomach that he couldn’t think of anything beyond that ache, beyond Frank so heavy on top of him, so close he could barely breathe. He would blame Frank for doing this to him, for winding him up, for putting him in this position in the first place. If it weren’t for all that, he would’ve been able to do the right thing. He would’ve been able to get up, free himself, walk away.

He would not have done what he did next.

Which was _whine_ , his voice low and close to breathless. He surged up from the bed and kissed Frank.

Frank sucked him off that night. Billy wished desperately that he had his phone within reach, or that he could at least marshal his limbs long enough to turn on a light. Anything to let him see Frank in better clarity as he lay between his legs and swallowed his dick like he was starving for it.

He put Billy on his stomach, fucked him until sweat trailed down his spine, until his legs burned and his mind cleared out, and then when Billy felt himself on the edge, Frank flipped him onto his back. He pushed Billy’s legs to his chest and fucked him like he was the last whore on earth, headboard bouncing off the wall, until Billy screamed, clawing at his back, desperate to hold on. With Frank’s grip tight on his thighs, on his neck, pushing into him like he Billy was meant for this, like Billy was his alone, like Frank was trying to prove it to him.

Billy saw stars. He might’ve passed out.

He did pass out when Frank was finally finished with him, but not before Frank wrung a second, almost painful orgasm from him. The last thing he remembered before he cast off from the shores of consciousness was Frank’s hands on his chest, gentle over the hooded bloom of a foxglove plant, just under his thudding heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The play Frank and Billy see is based on Sleep No More, which is an interactive play that was/is a big deal. I think it's still running, although tickets aren't cheap. The private dinner club thing is just something that I keep seeing around Toronto and probably exists in other cities too. 
> 
> Billy's "are you gonna lasso me the moon, Jimmy Stewart?" line is a reference to _It's a Wonderful Life_. 
> 
> i'm sleepy on main over on nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank wonders if it's worth it to be patient. Billy receives an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-typical violence in this chapter. Also brief appearance of Billy/Jess. 
> 
> Thanks again to Jun/ssealdog for beta'ing!

Billy woke up gradually, a pull back to awareness so slow he wasn’t quite sure if he was awake in the first place. Unconsciousness lapped over him like waves from a receding tide, leaving him stranded on the shore. In a bed.

Sheets tangled around his legs, slipped down his hips. He was naked. There was a man pressed against his back, an arm around his waist, a leg wedged between his own, the rhythmic puff of an exhale at the nape of his neck. He could feel someone’s nose at his hairline, lips a few inches from his skin. Billy breathed slowly. His heart thumped against his ribs.

With awareness came two realisations. Number one: Billy had spent the night with Frank. Number two: Billy had spent the night in what was almost _certainly_ Frank’s home.

Billy wasn’t one hundred percent certain about that last one, but even from his limited vantage point, he could find evidence to support his conclusion. For one thing, the room didn’t smell like a hotel room; that mixture of Pinesol cleaner, vanilla-scented plug-ins, clean linens, and that faint ozone burn of a recently run vacuum cleaner. It didn’t even smell the way hotel rooms smelled after Billy and Frank had fucked in them a few times.

 It smelled like laundry, like cologne, like Frank. The sheets were navy blue instead of white. The pillows were soft and looked beaten in. They smelled like Frank too. Like shampoo and hair wax.

The bedroom was too small to be a hotel room. There was an old oak dresser pushed against a powder-blue wall. Instead of the usual inoffensive art, Billy could see a framed motorcycle poster and a print of a flaming skull that someone must’ve drawn for Frank.

Billy squeezed his stinging eyes shut and bit back a groan as surprise realisation number three edged to the fore. He was hung-over.

He shifted in Frank’s grip. The arm around his waist was heavy and unmoving, even as Billy tried to slide out from under it. Frank’s fingers twitched. He breathed in slowly, with that strange, deep hollow sound produced by someone still deep asleep, and mumbled something, his lips brushing against Billy’s skin.

Billy decided to hold his breath until Frank settled again, even as his traitor heart pounded loud and hard enough that Frank must’ve been able to feel it.

But Frank didn’t settle. His hand slid down Billy’s stomach. He grumbled, pressed a sleepy, faint kiss over the nape of his neck. Another one followed shortly after, this time with a hint of tongue, his lashes fluttering over Billy’s skin. Billy swallowed as Frank’s thumb brushed over his navel. He had no idea if Frank was even awake, but he could feel parts of him starting to stir. His dick swelled where it pressed against Billy’s ass.

Billy bit his lip but not in time to prevent a quiet moan. If Frank initiated something now, he was done for. He wouldn’t be getting out of that bed for a while and all his hopes for a quick and quiet escape would head straight out the window.

Billy could say no, of course. He arched his back as Frank continued to press open-mouthed, lazy kisses down his neck. He could extract himself from Frank’s grip and leave. Frank wouldn’t keep him against his will. He wasn’t a monster.

The trouble was, Billy was a hedonist. He didn’t try to hide from it, but he hated how weak he was to it sometimes. How stupid it made him. The smart thing to do would be to leave. The smarter thing to do would’ve been to leave last night, as soon as he’d realised he was in Frank’s apartment.

But a slow, lazy morning fuck with Frank Castle sounded too appealing to walk away from. He ran his foot up Frank’s bare calf, slipped his hand over Frank’s where it lay over his chest and guided it lower.

“Mornin’,” Frank mumbled, breath warm and sweet over Billy’s now spit-slick skin. He gave a shallow thrust, pushing the hot line of his dick between Billy’s thighs. “How’d you sleep?”

Billy huffed and turned his head. Frank knocked his nose against the underside of Billy’s chin, dragged his tongue over his neck.

“I’ve got a hangover.” Billy reached over and curled his hand around the side of Frank’s head, pressed his ass back into Frank’s cock.

Frank inhaled sharply. “I know a good cure for that,” he said, grinning.

Billy felt like an addict. He wasn’t like this with anyone else. He was never this stupid. Frank wasn’t just the best dick in his contact list—he was becoming the best _everything_. The way he treated Billy, the way he treated Billy’s body, like it really was a temple and fucking him was an act of worship, made Billy forget all the reasons sticking around was a bad idea. Frank had discovered things about Billy’s body that Billy had forgotten.

It was a little scary. All Frank had to do was touch him. Billy couldn’t run from this. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to anymore.

Frank grabbed Billy’s chin, twisted his head and kissed him. Billy almost melted. It was like falling asleep. It was like dreaming. Frank’s hands on him, his mouth, lips and tongue. When was the last time Billy had let anyone give him a fucking lovebite? But when Frank nibbled at his neck, Billy just pushed into his teeth.

The rattle of plastic on wood snapped him back to awareness. Billy’s eyes flew open and Frank broke away, cursing. He let go of Billy and reached behind him, groping for the phone on his bedside table.

“Shit,” Frank said with a sigh. “That’ll be the dog sitter.”

That broke the spell. Billy shimmied from Frank’s loose hold on him, to the edge of the bed. He pushed his hair back from his face, hooked his briefs with his toe, and slid them on. Behind him, he could hear Frank having a muted conversation on his phone.

“I’ll see you soon,” Frank said. Billy stood up and snagged his pants from the floor. He could actually feel it when Frank started to watch him, the sensation a prickle at the back of his neck. That hair-raising reaction, an evolutionary left-over from being prey animals in the wild. The feeling of being under the observation of something dangerous.

“You’re leaving?” Frank asked.

Billy didn’t reply immediately. He buttoned his shirt quickly, his pants hanging loosely from his hips. His mind raced for an excuse.

“Yeah,” he said. “I, uh. I got some things I wanted to do today.” Weak. And since when did he stutter?

Stupid. Frank was just a guy. Billy reminded himself that he was smarter than this, smarter than Frank. Even if he had just turned to putty in Frank’s hands moments before.

Billy grabbed his jacket from the floor—Christ, he’d have to get his suit pressed and cleaned again—when Frank spoke up at last.

“You could stick around,” he said casually.

That wasn’t true and Billy damn well knew it. His fingers shook as he tightened his belt. His hair kept falling into his eyes, slipping out from his day-old style, loose from the wax and product he’d so carefully applied more than twelve hours ago.

“I just gotta…” Jesus, what the hell was wrong with him? His heart was racing. His thoughts were static, just white noise between his ears, as if he were some kind of idiot. He couldn’t think of a good excuse to leave. All he could think of was the truth.

That staying for a slow morning fuck followed by breakfast, followed by meeting Frank’s damn dog, followed by god knew what else, felt dangerous. Felt like a promise that he didn’t think either of them were prepared to keep.

Frank should’ve wanted him gone, anyway. He was supposed to have figured out just what kind of person Billy was, what a relationship with him would look like. Had Billy made a mistake? Maybe he should’ve been meaner...

Frank slipped into his underwear and followed Billy into the living room. Billy couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say so he kept his mouth shut while he busied himself with tucking his shirt back in.

“I’d like to see you again,” Frank said.

“That’s gonna be hard to avoid,” Billy said while he tried to slip on his shoes without crushing the leather. “We work together.”

Frank caught his arm. Just one hand placed at the crook of Billy’s elbow, nothing more, but Billy went still. All of his nervous energy, all of his movement, arrested with a single, simple touch. As if he’d been trained for it. Frank turned him gently around until they were face to face again.

“Your shirt,” Frank murmured. He slipped his hands down the line of buttons and popped them open. Billy breathed in sharply, as if Frank had just pulled a knife on him.

If Frank tried to keep him here—if he put his hands on Billy now, pulled him back into his orbit, into a kiss—Billy wouldn’t be able to leave. He knew it as sure as he knew the weight of his switchblade. He knew it, looking at Frank’s warm eyes, the furrow of his brow, the purse of his cupid-bow lips. All Frank had to do was say ‘please’ and Billy would be finished.

“You messed up your buttons,” Frank said instead.

“Oh,” Billy said. “Fuck.” He breathed a quiet sigh of relief and made himself stand still while Frank did him up again. His fingers brushed at Billy’s chest once or twice, but it felt accidental. Frank’s expression was inscrutable.

“I want to keep seeing you,” Frank said again. “And not just during the job. You know what I mean.”

Billy did. He hated that it actually scared the hell out of him. He used to be so good at this.

“There.” Frank patted him on the shoulder and stepped back. “Now you’re ready for your walk of shame.”

Billy huffed. He straightened up under Frank’s regard. “I have never,” he said, “in my life taken a walk of shame. There’s nothin’ shameful about what I do.”

“No there sure as hell isn’t,” Frank agreed, smiling back. He looked tired. He leaned against the wall while Billy unlatched the door. “I’ll see you?”

Billy hesitated for just the barest shave of a second. He thought about turning around, dropping his jacket on the ground and crowding into Frank. They could pick up where they left off. There was nothing stopping him.

Except for common-sense. He flashed Frank a quick smile over his shoulder. “I’ll text you.”

* * *

She rolled off of him as soon as they were finished. Billy lay back on the bed, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He was a little gratified to hear she sounded winded, too.

She sat at the edge of the bed, listing towards the pillows, her neck and shoulders illuminated with the blue glow of a phone screen. Her black mane hung in tangles down her back. She scratched the side of her head, shoving the hair around.

Billy watched her because she was more entertaining to look at than the ceiling. He thought about grabbing his own phone and checking who he’d missed in the last two hours, but his limbs felt loose and elastic and he didn’t feel like moving just yet.

He couldn’t help how lazy he got after a decent fuck. It definitely wasn’t because he was avoiding his phone. He picked at his nails.

Finally, she fell back onto the bed, landing in the pillows with a huff of exhaled air.

“That wasn’t bad,” she said, sounding thoughtful.

“Thanks for the review. You seemed to enjoy yourself,” Billy said.

She cut him a look from the sides of her eyes, one dark brow raised. “You sound confident. How do you know I wasn’t faking?”

“Why would you? To soothe my ego? You don’t seem the type,” he said.

She didn’t smile at him—he didn’t think she had a smile in her—but the corner of her lips twitched.

He liked Alias. He liked that she didn’t seem to care about him, or about anyone except for her blonde sister (adopted, according to Frank) or the big guy Billy only knew as Bullet (short for ‘Bullet Proof’ which was a hell of a nickname for a Black guy to choose for himself). He liked the way she fucked him, like she had a grudge against him or maybe just against everyone, and she was looking to work it out in the bedroom. She’d told Billy once that he reminded her of her first serious boyfriend, a guy named Stirling. Given the way she liked to treat him, he assumed that things hadn’t ended on good terms between them.

Best of all, she didn’t try to turn what they had into anything but what it was. She didn’t ask him to go out on any fucking dates.

“You seem distracted,” Alias said. She had her phone out again.

“Is that part of my review?” he asked, dodging the unasked question.

“I haven’t seen you around much, lately,” she said.

“I’ve been busy,” he said, watching the shadows pull across the ceiling as a car drove past.

“Working with another crew?”

He frowned and turned his head. “You tryin’ to grill me, Alias?”

“Nope,” she said. “Just making small talk ‘til I feel like getting dressed. So, what’s the story? You lighting out on us already?”

Had it really been that long since he’d worked a job for Micro? It’d been three weeks since the last time he’d worked with Alias; the docks job where they blew up a shipment and made it look like someone else had done it.

The same night Frank had asked him out. Billy crushed the heels of his hands into the hollows of his eyes. “I’m not lighting out,” he said. “Just… layin’ low for a bit.”

He’d only turned down one job from Micro since and he told himself it was because it was getting too hot to keep putting his face out there. Told himself that if the Deshauers really were hiring all those new freelancers in town, he didn’t want his pretty face on their corkboard.

Christ, he used to be such a good liar.

“Beast has been sulking,” Alias said. “You two split?”

Billy rolled over and reached for his phone. “We were never dating,” he said.

Alias actually laughed at him. “Really? Cause you two were joined at the crotch last time I saw you.”

Billy folded his arm behind his head and scrolled through his messages. The usual suspects had come knocking, looking for a good night. Nothing from Frank.

It’d been a little over two weeks since Billy slunk out of Frank’s apartment with a weak promise to text. Frank had sent him only two messages since then, and Billy had ignored them both.

 “Since when do you care about what other people do?” he asked, swiping his thumb across his screen.

“I don’t. I’m just nosy,” Alias replied. “It’s just weird to see Beast get upset just because someone doesn’t like him back. He’s usually pretty resilient.”

Billy stared at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen.

“He pulls this stuff with a lot of people, does he?” he asked casually.

When Alias didn’t immediately reply, Billy looked over. Alias had propped herself up on one elbow, aimed a flat look at Billy’s face.

“No,” she said, like he’d disappointed her.

“But he’s slept with most of you guys, right?” he asked.

Alias rolled her eyes and fell back onto the bed. “I don’t know, I don’t exactly ask. I’m pretty sure he’s fucked Gale and DD, maybe at the same time. I know he fucked Kitty.” She sneered with a show of teeth.

That confirmed a few of Billy’s suspicions. He wondered if Frank made it a habit to work through Micro’s roster. If maybe Billy was just another notch on the bedpost.

He rubbed his hand through his hair. Even he couldn’t make himself believe that one, not after the aggressive way Frank had pursued him.

“What about you?” Billy asked, feeling curious.

“Christ.” Alias wrinkled her nose. “I made myself a promise years ago to never fuck anyone who fucked my sister,” she said. “Plus, unlike you morons, I actually have taste.”

“Your loss,” Billy said with a little bite in his tone.

She regarded him for a moment, her big eyes narrowing as she examined his face. Billy made himself stare back, too stubborn to show weakness. He had no idea what she was looking for. He knew she wouldn’t find anything he didn’t want her to see.

Alias sighed and dropped her head back onto the pillow. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered as she rolled over, bringing half the sheets with her. “Boys never really grow up, do they?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked peevishly.

She shook her head and pulled her panties up. “You got any plans for tonight, handsome?” she asked as she stood up.

Billy turned his gaze back to his phone. “I dunno. You?”

“There’s supposed to be that firework display on the harbour later,” Alias said. “Bullet was talking about it. I might go.”

“With him?” Billy asked with a sly smile.

Alias didn’t rise to his bait. She pulled her t-shirt over her head, shaking her hair loose. “I used to hate the Fourth when I was a kid,” she said. “Our neighbourhood always had this boring barbeque where all the adults drank beer and all the kids played games of manhunt. I went through a vegetarian phase as a teenager just to force people to make me veggie dogs. I was hoping it would discourage them from inviting me back.”

“Did it work?” he asked.

She huffed a breath as she shimmied into her jeans. “I wish. But the fireworks were okay.”

Billy stayed in the hotel room a little longer after Alias left. He sat with his back against the wall and scrolled through his messages, something in his stomach souring with each one. He was tired of seeing the same names, the same invitations. He’d invited Alias out tonight because she was a reliably good fuck and he was sick of everyone else.

And maybe, just maybe, he was kind of hoping she might mention Frank.

Sulking. Billy tried to imagine Frank sulking about anything. The guy was like a pit bull, excitable and dangerous. Simple, definitely, but not stupid. Not as stupid as Billy had first believed, anyway. He was the kind of guy who lived in the moment. To picture him sulking felt strange.

Billy chewed on his thumbnail. Stranger still to think it was Billy who’d brought him to this. Billy knew he could drive people a little crazy, sure, but that was just lust. That was just his looks. He didn’t think he could hurt anyone the way he was supposedly hurting Frank.

Shit. Billy sighed and stood up. Fucking Alias was supposed to have gotten him out of his head for a bit, not push him further in. He found his jeans in a tangle on the floor.

It was warm outside, although they were not quite into the baking heart of summer. The streets had filled with people, some of them dressed in patriotic red, white and blue. The sky above had turned a deep navy, the very last hint of sunlight holding on for dear life at the horizon. Billy hated this time of year. Too hot to wear jeans, although it didn’t stop him, and barely enough night to sleep through.

His phone trembled in his pocket as he made his way back to his apartment. Fireworks burst above the city as his Uber weaved through the streets, sparks of green and blue, red and gold, purple and white, raining down above the mirrored skyscrapers. Billy watched through the windows and ignored his driver’s attempt at small talk.

Alias was right. The fireworks were okay.

Billy’s neighbourhood was the kind that would have block parties, barbeques and kids playing manhunt. He could smell the mesquite and burnt hot dogs as soon as he stepped out of the car. His building’s super had sent out notices last week, informing everyone that they were going to have a little cook out in the parking lot. Open invitation. Billy had watched from his tenth floor balcony while the super and his wife dragged a propane grill and a beat-up cooler out from the garage to the visitor’s parking area. Other women had come down with cellophane-covered bowls of macaroni salad and coleslaw, setting them up on the plastic folding table beside the BBQ when Billy had left to find his own fun that evening.

It was all gone now, save for a smashed hamburger bun and a smear of melted ice cream on the concrete, a garbage bin stuffed with plastic packaging and aluminium pop cans.

Billy heard more fireworks as he stepped into the elevator, a soft whistle, pop and hiss of flying sparks. He knew his super wouldn’t allow the detonation of anything more dangerous than a sparkler on the property; likely they were coming from the city park or from someone’s backyard. He saw a streak of light through the hall windows as he stuck his key into his door, followed by a flash of white and gold. Fire falling like glitter from the sky.

All of his lights were off.

Billy stood in the entryway. The door closed quietly behind him.

The hair on his arm and the back of his neck rose. He’d kept his kitchen light on before he left, even though the sun had barely started to set.

The bulb could’ve gone out. He dropped his keys into the bowl by his front door with a jangle. He strained his hearing, scanned the shadows as he dragged his shoes off by their soft heels. He brushed his hand over his front pocket, felt the reassuring weight still there. Billy walked inside, his bare feet quiet on the fake hardwood floor.

Another whistle before a firework flared outside of his window, blue light exploding in the distance beyond the trees and the peaked roofs of his neighbours’ houses. Shadows spilled over his couch and his coffee table, across the ceiling and the floor.

Billy heard it a second before it was too late; the quiet, barely-there hiss of an exhale.

He spun around, switchblade in hand, just as the garrotte snapped around where his neck would’ve been.  

* * *

Frank sat on the edge of his neighbour’s front porch, dangling a sweating bottle of Dos Equis between his legs, while Lola snoozed at his feet. Only a few grills remained where they’d been wheeled out hours earlier, when the neighbours had cordoned off their little cul-de-sac and began setting up folding tables and lawn furniture. Brought out crockpots filled with pulled pork, macaroni and cheese, tureens of spinach and artichoke dip, platters of raw veggies, brownies, bowls of chips and coleslaw, and more. Somehow, people were always bringing more. The grills had hissed and spat smoke, burning ‘til they ran out of meat or fuel, whichever came first.

Frank brought a red onion and cheddar dip that tasted better than the ingredients made it sound, chips for dipping, chicken legs and thighs marinated in Worcester sauce, and a watermelon. And, like most of the men, he’d brought a six pack.

Most of the food was gone now. The few kids that managed to stay awake had all gone to the main park square three blocks over to watch the fireworks up close. Their parents had either gone with them to supervise or gone back inside to enjoy a little peace and quiet. Frank could see the fireworks just fine from where he sat and so he opted to stay behind and enjoy his last beer of the night. He was one of the few who did.

The air whistled as a streak shot straight into the sky, exploding into white glitter that fell in long arcs, like the boughs of a weeping willow. Lola whined. Frank patted her flank without looking.

 

_Across town, Billy stabbed at a dodging shadow. The garrotte wound its way around his wrist, yanking him off-step, closer to his assailant, who hit him in the chest with what felt like more than a fist. Billy wheezed, pain splintering from his ribs. He kicked at the back of his attacker’s calf, just under the bend of his knee, knocking one leg out from under him. The attacker stumbled, knee hitting the floor, yanking Billy down with him._

 

“Nice night.” Frank saw her approach, picking her way through the discarded supersoakers and the wrinkled slip-n-slide left on the lawn.

Frank smiled with one side of his mouth. “I didn’t expect you’d be back so soon,” he said as she sat down beside him. “You finished with the Sheerazi boy already?”

Kitty—Trish—just shrugged. She’d gone off hours ago with a twenty-year-old buzzcut with a strong jaw and a fresh set of muscles from boot camp. He reached into the cooler.

“Young men are enthusiastic, but they lack finesse,” she said, accepting the beer. “It was more work than I wanted.”

“That’s a shame,” Frank said. Trish shrugged again and took a pull.

Another flare of light streaked through the sky, flashing for a moment before a fan of blue and red exploded in a pop high above their heads.

 

_—skinned the back of his hand but his arm was finally free. Billy kicked the attacker’s head, heel knocking into his chin as they separated from each other. The attacker scrambled to his feet just as Billy did, launching himself into Billy’s midsection as Billy tried to lunge for his knife, which had fallen seconds earlier. Billy’s feet slipped against the edge of his throw rug as he tried to resist and they both tumbled over his couch, rolled over the cushions, and onto the glass coffee table, which shattered under their weight. Pain exploded from Billy’s side._

“Thank you for inviting me out tonight,” Trish said after a while. Frank lifted a shoulder. “Seriously. I was going stir-crazy. It means a lot that you didn’t just blow me off.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Frank said. “I know how it can get.”

She leaned into him, knocking their shoulders together. “I just keep thinking about what I could be doing. Party holidays are the worst. You know, like New Years or Halloween. Any day where people are going out to drink a lot, looking to dance. I keep seeing those girls walk down the street in their four inch heels and I think about how that used to be my life.” She looked down at the bottle in her hands. Frank took another pull.

“Gettin’ old’s not so bad,” he said as the bubbles hissed and the beer settled.

“I never thought I’d get this far,” she admitted. “I guess it’s good. I don’t regret getting clean. I just…” She sighed, a huge gust of air that sent a few loose, blond strands flying back from her face. “Whatever. It’s good to get old.”

“Better than the alternative,” Frank agreed. He clinked his bottle against hers while a rain of golden sparks zig-zagged down through the night sky.

_—punched him twice, head hitting the floor like a knock on the door. Billy blinked stars from his eyes while his assailant leaned his full weight onto his knees where they pinned Billy’s chest, and got his hands around his neck. Billy groped blindly with his one free arm, glass skittering from his fingers, until they could wrap around something promising. His breath rattled in his chest, an exhale trapped by the hands crushing his windpipe, his vision growing dark as he swung his arm forward and jammed a massive shard into what should’ve been the attacker’s neck, but Billy’s aim was off, hindered by the pain still throbbing from his side and the pressure on his chest. The shard landed with a shudder in the meat between the attacker’s neck and his shoulder. The man above him screamed, hands loosening, and Billy pushed himself up, ignoring the way pain from his stomach flashed like lightning through his nerves, and jammed his thumbs into the hollows of his attacker’s eyes._

“How about you?” Trish asked. “Are you doing okay? I feel like I didn’t get a chance to ask you before.”

“I’m alright,” Frank said.

Trish narrowed her eyes at him, tapping her fingernails against her bottle, producing a tinkling sound. Another firework burst above their heads, casting them in vibrant purple light that quickly faded.

“What?” he asked.

“How are things going with your, uh.” She tilted her head at the phone he’d left sitting on the porch beside him. “Your pretty boy?”

Frank looked away. He took a long pull from the bottle.

“That good, huh,” she said.

 

_—bleeding down his temple, hot and blinding, as the garrotte tightened to a hard line of pain around his throat. Billy could hear his assailant’s wheezing, rattling breath in his ear. He ran them backwards, pushing into his attacker with every ounce of strength left in him, until they both slammed into his kitchen counter. Billy clawed at the wire, lights falling in his vision like snow from the sky. It was already dark in his apartment but he knew it was getting darker._

_He pushed back again, throwing his weight behind him, slamming the attacker into the lip of his counter. His attacker grunted, breath hot and wet against the side of Billy’s face. He twisted them around, switched their positions and shoved Billy over the counter._

_A firework bathed them both in red and blue. Billy clawed at the wire with one hand while the other groped the countertop for anything—anything. Why couldn’t people just die easy—?_

 

Lola whined again, her tail thumping against the wood. Frank reached down and scratched behind her ears.

“She scared of the fireworks?” Trish asked, leaning over Frank to get a better look at her.

“Nah, she’s just a baby,” he said fondly. “She knows if she whines I’m more likely to let her sleep in the bed with me tonight.”

“She’s got you trained, huh.” Trish smiled while Frank ducked his head with a sheepish laugh. “You can be such a softy.”

“I got no argument to that,” Frank said before finishing his beer.

Trish went quiet. They both watched as several fireworks were set off in close succession—some exploding into spheres, some sending sparks falling like the head of a palm tree, some pinwheeling, some swarming like bees through the air. After a while, Trish leaned back into him, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“You know, I admire the way you’re handling this,” she said. He turned and quirked a brow. “With the Beaut. Not everyone’s as honest as you are, you know that? Most guys, even guys our age, they prefer to act like they don’t have feelings for anyone. Like they’re afraid to be romantic.”

“I kind of have some sympathy for their position,” Frank said with a twitch of his nose. Trish laughed softly.

“Sure. But you’re not like them. You’re a guy who knows what you want and you’re not afraid to go for it,” she said. “That’s what I admire. That confidence. Do you really think you’ve blown things with him?”

“I don’t know,” Frank admitted. He eyed the cooler thoughtfully. “I made a play. I know he liked it. But I think he’s one of those guys you were talking about before.”

“Energetic but lacking finesse?” Trish asked.

“Afraid.” Frank gave into temptation, leaned over and pulled another bottle from the melting ice. 

Trish patted his arm. “Patience and persistence is the key,” she said. Frank huffed and gave her a look, knocking the beer cap loose on the edge of the porch. “It’s true,” she said while bubbles foamed over the neck. Frank cursed. “Just give him some time. You didn’t charm Lola overnight, did you?”

“Lola was a puppy I pulled out of a flop house,” Frank said as he shook the spilled beer from his fingers.

“Well, you said before that he kind of reminded you of your dog,” Trish said.

Frank had been a little drunk when he said it. He’d probably meant it, though. He felt a little bad about it. Lola was perfect but she _was_ only a dog. He rubbed behind Lola’s ears with his clean hand. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth.

Billy was a person, with all the bullshit and complexities that went with being a person. Frank could imagine he wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.

But there was something about the way he’d acted. That night Frank took him home for the first time, fucked him in his own bed, when Frank had lost himself to the moment, finally confessed to what he wanted, how badly he wanted Billy to be his, Billy had looked at him like he was dying to be owned.

It kind of broke Frank’s heart at the time.

“I don’t know,” he admitted at last. “He’s got a lot of baggage. I could keep trying but it might end up being a waste of time.”

“You can’t know for sure,” Trish said. Frank shrugged and took another drink. “You could be right. He might decide he doesn’t want to be with you in the end. But I’ve seen you two together.” She nudged him and raised a single brow, a coquettish gesture that made Frank smile. “He likes you too. You’ve got chemistry,” she said as Frank chuckled.

“Yeah, plenty of _chemistry_ ,” Frank said with a drunken waggle of his eyebrows.

“I’m not just talking about that. You have that kind of chemistry with everyone. We had it.” Another dig of her elbow into his side. He shoved her with enough force to make her sway a little where she sat.

“He likes you,” she said as she settled. Frank shook his head. “But if he’s work, then he’s work. There’s no shame in calling it quits if you think he’s not worth it.”

Frank blew out a quiet breath, almost a whistle. “That’s a little harsh.”

“That’s life, babe,” Trish said, irreverent and wise.

He tapped the bottle against his thigh and let the silence fall like a soft blanket, warm without smothering. Trish reclaimed his shoulder, her head a comfortable weight, as they both watched the sky burn with brief rainbows.

He wished, in that quiet moment, that he could try things with Trish. He wished that he liked her in that way. He wished that he liked anyone in that way. He’d forgotten just how alive he felt when he had someone the way he had Maria. How good he felt. Maybe he’d been too reckless in pursuing Billy because of how happy it made him just to have someone to chase again. Maybe Billy really wasn’t worth it.

Frank’s heart twisted at the thought. His grip tightened on the neck of his beer. He sighed and took another drink.

Lola’s ears lifted. Frank’s phone lit up and started to shake itself across the stained wooden porch.

* * *

The fireworks had stopped. The night was silent and dark. The light of the waning moon cast blue shadows across the shattered room.

Billy lay face-down on the floor of what used to be a very nice apartment. His chest moved, which he supposed meant he was still alive. He was in pain but it was hard to say where it started. His neck was a strong contender—every noisy breath burned—but his leg, his arm, the puncture at his side, all of them clamoured for attention, sending out signals to be heard over the dull roar of hurt that seemed to seep from his very bones. He’d definitely broken a rib.

He hadn’t meant to stay there but pulling himself out of the kitchen had taken more energy than he’d anticipated. Probably more than he had to spare. He got as far as the edge of his throw rug before he decided to take a break, let the blood pool around him for a while.

He could see the static shine of glass shards on the ground, the light unmoving on their gleaming edges. If Billy looked down, he would see the lightning bolt edge of another shard sticking out of his side. There was another, smaller one lodged in his leg. He didn’t particularly want to see either of them again. He stared at his LCD flatscreen instead, which sat askew on the wall, its black screen a spider web.

God, that’d been so expensive. Now it was smashed. He could hear a steady drumming onto his linoleum floor, the sound like a tap that’d been left dripping.

He wondered if any of his neighbours had heard what’d happened. His attacker—a man he felt he’d gotten to know pretty well from that strange, shared intimacy of two people trying to kill each other—hadn’t used a gun. Probably he’d wanted to keep things quiet.

Billy had done his best. The attacker hadn’t screamed when the killing blow came. He’d gurgled, mouth opening with a wheezing sound, like the tide sucking water from an open cave by the shore. Pretty quiet all the way to the end.

God. Billy’s eyelids began to list. He was probably falling into shock. He’d be useless in a few minutes. More useless. He grit his teeth, tried to batter his mind back to consciousness, and resumed dragging himself across the floor, to the front entrance where he’d dropped his phone a few years earlier.

There were plenty of new messages waiting for him. Billy stared at the screen, blood oozing down his brow, while he tried to remember his password before recalling that this phone only needed his thumbprint.

Billy pushed himself up on his trembling arms while his phone dialled on the floor. He winced, groaning at the pull of his denim over the puncture wound in his leg, at the spike and stab in his chest with the movement. He forced himself over onto his back, biting back a scream when it jarred his stomach.

He barely noticed when the line connected. “Hey, beautiful.”

Billy blinked at his ceiling. Had he meant to call Frank?

“Bill?”

Billy closed his eyes. His chest heaved with a long, wheezing inhale. It felt good, he realised, hearing Frank’s voice. He reached out blindly, tried to pull his phone closer to where he lay. 

“Frank.” His voice was nothing. It was less than a suggestion of sound. It was tiny, a hiss squeezed through his damaged larynx. Billy swallowed, his eyes burning with the fresh shot of pain it gave him, and tried again. “Frank. _Frank_. ” How could anyone hear that? He couldn’t even hear himself inside his own head.

“Where are you?”

Billy pulled in another stinging breath. He could feel his lips moving but he couldn’t hear a sound.

“Keep your phone on. I’m gonna track you, okay? I’m gonna track your phone.”

Billy’s brow furrowed. Was that something people could do now? He hadn’t known that. If he had, he would’ve thrown his phone away.

He could hear his downstairs neighbours through his floor, hear the quiet murmur of a televised conversation, punctuated with the rumble of a laugh track.

“You’re up-town? Sweetheart, you’re at home?”

Another burst of recorded laughter, this time joined by the murmur of a live human voice. He wondered what they were watching.

“I’m coming for you, okay? Don’t hang up on me, Billy. Just stay on the line. I’m coming for you. Just hold on.”

Billy supposed he could do that. Seemed like the least he could do. His eyes slipped shut.

* * *

Billy dreamt he was in a house that was every house he’d ever lived in. It smelled like smoke and like antique furniture, like damp, mouldy basements, like sun-baked dust and old, dry paper. It sounded like the hum of an old CRT television tuned to a silent channel, like the rattle of a beige fridge, like the wheeze of water through a radiator. He walked through the rooms, pacing a circuit he used to know by heart, but found it leading him all the wrong directions.

He found the body of Mrs. Lombardi laid to rest on a mint-coloured couch, in the room that had green walls and a white fireplace. He regarded her with some surprise. He hadn’t known she died and then he recalled that he’d been invited to her funeral, but he didn’t want to go. Figures she’d bring it to him.

He didn’t want to stay in a room with a dead body. He left through the kitchen and back into a living room without any corpses in it. He found a house inside his house, a front entrance jammed into the centre of a living room. A white door with glass panelling and a golden mail slot, blue clapboard siding, a white sign with black wrought iron numbers. A nice place, the kind he used to watch flash past through car windows.

He approached it cautiously, dried leaves crunching under his bare feet as he walked up the porch. He could hear voices beyond the door, a rumble of conversation and a clatter of cutlery. He could smell a Sunday roast.

His stomach trembled and he realised he’d been hungry for a long time. He tried knocking but there was no reply. There was no pause in the sounds coming from within. He pressed his ear against the door and tried to hear what they were saying. A wind sliced through the room, throwing leaves across the wooden porch, and Billy shivered. He’d forgotten to put on his coat. He wrapped his hands around his aching stomach.

Something tapped against his calves. Billy looked down and saw the doggy flap bounce against the door before settling.

Billy was small. He could probably fit.

Inside he heard a woman laugh and it sounded like his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk why i think stirling, the fuckboy bf from JJ s2, reminds me of billy. i've been told they don't even look alike. it's just the vibe i get i guess. 
> 
> i specifically created applied the basic formatting skin to this work just so i could have billy's last spoken lines in this fic appear in smaller font. if you've disabled skins, you won't see it and i'll be disappointed but i'll understand because you gotta choose your own browsing experience.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's left a very kind comment. I'm sorry I haven't gotten around to responding to them in the last couple weeks. I've been feeling deep-fried and wrung out but rest assured that I read and treasure every word! You beautiful maniacs I love you all...
> 
> you wanna see some gifs of billy blinking or whatever? i reblog them over on nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank takes his boy home. Billy recovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jun/ssealdog beta'd this chapter which was very good and cool of him. thank you, jun.
> 
> this chapter's long. there's mentions of child abuse at the top. it's also nsfw.

The first time Billy went to the ER, he was eleven years old.

A few people knew the story. He’s told it more than once. The first person he ever told it to was his cellmate, a few months into his stay in juvie.  His cellmate, Lucas. A boy Billy knew named Lucas.

Billy could remember Lucas sliding into his cot beside him when it was finally dark. When he put his hands under Billy’s shirt, on Billy’s bare skin, Billy flinched.

It wasn’t even the first time Lucas had touched Billy like that. Billy couldn’t explain what was different this time, what made him shy away then when he hadn’t before. Nothing ever happened in the order it should have. Trauma sprouted like weeds through cracked concrete, growing in places no one expected it to grow.

Lucas had looked at him, mouth twisted with disappointment, with hurt, and Billy started talking before he could think better of it. He could remember feeling more things in that moment than he’d let himself feel all month. Nervousness about telling, anger at the memory, and a little disappointment in himself for spilling the secret in the first place. Part of him had wanted to keep it all buried. Handle it the way a man would handle it; jaw clenched, lips tight. Let it die, suffocated inside of him.

But he’d told Lucas. Lucas touched his hair and his face afterwards and told him, in a voice that stumbled, that he hoped the guy had caught AIDS and died.

The story about the Samaritan was quick to tell, or at least it was the way Billy told it. He sketched the barest outline, let people draw their own grim conclusions.

He didn’t talk about everything, about the little details that stuck with him. The smell of freshly cut grass and the clear, blue sky above. The way the Samaritan touched Billy’s face with his soft hands. The way the word ‘pretty’ crawled out of his mouth, a monster shaped by teeth and tongue. Billy was young but he’d never been innocent.

Here was something he’d never told anyone: the way a part of him unwound, not with relief but with a sense of understanding. A part of him thinking ‘yes, right, of course.’ Thinking: ‘This is it. This is when it will happen.’ A part so hidden that Billy hadn’t even realised it was there, waiting for this as if it were inevitable. There was no protection for kids like Billy. No one to stand between him and the rest of the world. Part of him had always known it, known that it made him a tempting target.

And then the bat, Billy swinging for his life, the rage that swept him up like a tidal wave. He got the man around his face, and his shoulder, hard enough to bruise but not as hard as he wanted because Billy was eleven and he wasn’t getting enough to eat. He aimed too high when he should’ve gone low and the Samaritan caught the bat and twisted, took Billy’s arm and _twisted_.

Billy was quick and he was clever, but he was also small and weak. It’d hurt worse than anything else had ever hurt, and buried inside the pain like a current in the ocean was the humiliation that would sweep him away for years after.

Billy never talked about what came after. Him lying face down in the grass, gasping, his breath tripping out of his chest, a live thing he couldn’t seem to catch. Darkness blinking behind his eyes, falling like black snow in his vision. The sound of footsteps running close, a woman’s voice calling his name.

“He’s here,” the Samaritan said. “Right here!”

Billy’d flipped over his handlebars. Broke his arm. Very sad.

Billy stared up at the adults while the Samaritan recounted the story he wrote for Billy. He said nothing while Ms. Rutina picked him up from the ground, taking his good arm in her hand, her head turned towards the other adult, her expression grave. She didn’t seem to notice the red mark on the man’s cheek, where Billy’s bat had cracked him earlier. It would take a few hours before it would swell up, turn ugly.

The Samaritan caught Billy’s eye only once.

An official report was made. Ms. Rutina called a social worker, Mrs. Kelly, who met with Billy at the ER. She asked him a few questions about his accident.

The attack was an island in his history, a boulder in the rushing current of his life. Something that broke the flow, something that would take decades to grind down, maybe more time than Billy even had.

But the truth was that there were months and months of _after_. The physical recovery from the attack took time. It took casts and painkillers and physical therapy and trips to the doctor for check-ups. It took weeks and weeks of being unable to use his right arm. He missed out on most of his summer. Lost his spot on the neighbourhood baseball team. His shoulder hurt and kept hurting and every time it did, every time he looked down and saw his cast and later the scars, it was like going back in time and all the humiliation and helplessness came running back to him, like it’d been hunting him, a dog forever on his heels.

That was all to come. In the more immediate after, Billy had to wait for three hours in the ER. Three hours with his arm in a make-shift sling, with pain that pulsed through him with every beat of his heart. He was a priority but they couldn’t see him right away. There’d been an accident.

A high school soccer team’s bus had crashed. Teen boys dressed in blue and white uniforms were being wheeled in on stretchers, their bodies bent and twisted. Some wore neck braces, their faces pushed up by foam and plastic, their eyes glazed over or wild and searching, like something that’d gotten trapped in their face. Moaning and wailing like little kids. Families came after, mothers and fathers holding each other together with tight, white-knuckled hands while harried nurses gave them a clipped speech.

Billy watched the drama unfold like it was happening on TV. After about two hours, things calmed down and the ER cleared out. Families were sent to surgical waiting rooms or to the wards.

One kid remained. He held his leg awkwardly, his lips pinched tight, white and bloodless. Billy watched, fascinated, as tears leaked out of his eyes, clearing tracks of dirt and soot from his face. An older woman sat beside him, her big, soft arm around his shoulder, speaking to him in a voice pitched low and gentle, a stream of reassurances that made Billy want to shiver, until finally the boy’s face contorted, turned red, and he collapsed into her, burying his face in her shoulder. His body shaking, each wet breath sucked in through a blocked nose. She shushed him, pet his hair, rocked him gently.

Billy stared. Beside him, Mrs. Kelly flipped through a year-old issue of Vogue.

“Where are you going?” she asked as Billy slid to his feet. He looked at her and gestured wordlessly to the sign for the restrooms.

“Okay.” She settled back and gave him a smile. “Try not to take too long. The doctor could come calling at any minute. Let me know if you need help.”

Billy shut the door behind him. It was a big stall, one of those private, single restrooms with the sink a few feet from the toilet. He sat down on the closed lid. He stared at the sign that told him to push the button if he needed emergency assistance until his eyes stung and his vision began to blur.

It was like needing to throw up. Like something fighting to get out of him. The first sob shook his whole torso, a ripple that started from the core of him, a sound that wriggled its way out from his throat, and it was all coming up in great, heaving gasps. Tears dripped down his chin, nose and jaw, burning his eyes like iodine.

He clamped his only good hand over his mouth, desperate to stem the tide, squeezed his eyes shut, and struggled with his grief and anger like it was something he could subdue and control. Like it belonged to him rather than the other way around.

Stupid, he told himself. Stupid baby. Crying over his _mommy_. It’d been six years. If she had really wanted him, if she had really loved him, she would’ve gotten clean by now. Would’ve come find him. Taken him to a place where he had his own bed, his own room. A quiet place where he could have a shelf filled with books and comics. Where they could watch TV at night, balancing plates of Hamburger Helper on their knees. A place where he could put something down and find it again in the same place later. A place where no one stared at his mouth or ever called him anything but his name. A home at last.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. That was just an ending to a story, not the way things happened in real life. He slammed his fist on his thigh, choked on another inhale, bit down on his lip until he could feel it sting.

He was a bad kid. He’d heard it often enough to believe it. To wear it like a badge. He was rotten to the very core. He never played nice. He hurt everyone who got close. He made everyone angry.

She didn’t want him. No one wanted him. No one wanted a bad kid.

To hell with them all. His chest heaved and stuttered but he could feel it all start to pass, a river flowing above his head. The trick was to let himself sink into it. He sniffed, gasped, swallowed. The thing inside of him shrank and reassembled. His breath wheezed but the grip on his throat loosened.

This would be the last time, he promised himself. He wouldn’t miss her. She’d made her choice and now he had to make his. He wouldn’t miss her. He wouldn’t let himself miss anyone, ever. If he was unwanted then he would live without wanting.

He pawed at the toilet paper. It was the industrial stuff, single ply and stiff as hell. It stung his cheeks like sandpaper.

The ache in his shoulder returned, gained strength as he sat there. It wouldn’t go away any time soon. This wasn’t a dream he could wake up from, even if it felt like it.

He splashed cold water on his face, examined himself in the mirror. His cheeks were splotchy and his eyes were shot through with crooked red lines. If people looked closely, they would know he’d been crying.

“Everything okay?” Mrs. Kelly asked as Billy reclaimed his seat. She looked up from her magazine—moved on to an ancient issue of Time—and gave him the same smile she’d been throwing his way since she met him, almost two hours before.

“Fine,” he said.

She looked at him a moment longer. Billy watched the nurses’ station, holding his breath.

She turned back to her magazine with a crackle of paper.

* * *

Frank closed his eyes out of habit before he flicked the lighter’s flint wheel. He’d cleaned his hands but he could still smell copper on his fingers. He saw the flame behind his lids, felt it catch on the tip of the cigarette in his mouth, breathed in deep and breathed out a sigh of smoke.

There was no reason to hold onto his night vision out here. He leaned against the aluminium siding, felt the ridges dig into his back through the shirt Curt had lent him, his own t-shirt long lost to the cause of keeping as much of Billy Russo’s blood inside Billy Russo as they could. It’d been a nice shirt. Vintage Led Zeppelin from a tour that took place before Frank was born, bought from a thrift store years ago.

No one had seen Frank arrive. It was late enough at night that it’d started to crest on early morning. There was nobody around; Frank couldn’t even hear cars on the main road. All the houses were dark, windows blank and unseeing.

A cat watched Frank from across the road, curled tight into a loaf, its tail wrapped all the way around itself. Yellow eyes fixed on Frank. He blew out a plume of smoke and winked at it. The cat turned its head.

Frank’s phone hummed in his pocket. He cursed quietly, stuck his cigarette back into his mouth, and pulled it out.

‘Call me,’ Micro had written. Frank scowled, but he did.

“What’s wrong with text?” he asked, careful to keep his voice low.

“I’m too tired to text,” David replied. “The crew’s finished but that place is trashed. He’s gonna need somewhere else to stay. I got some photos of the face but I didn’t recognize him. Neither did my system.”

Frank cursed again, his head falling back against the wall. If David’s smart facial ID software couldn’t pick up the dead man’s identity, that meant the killer wasn’t a Deshauer or one of their associates.

“I didn’t recognize him neither,” Frank said. “Maybe our favourite family knows you’ve got them all down to rights and they hired an outside contractor? All those freelancers hangin’ around lately.”

David hummed. “I’ve been keeping an eye on that. I don’t think the family’s hired outside help. They don’t have the resources to hire anyone new right now.” There was a soft clink on the other side of the line, like cutlery hitting a plate. When David spoke again, his voice came slightly muffled. “Besides, I’ve been thinking about it. How would they get his name and address but not yours? You both wore masks. You both used your codenames during jobs. If anyone was gonna get ID’d, I would’ve thought it’d be you.”

“No one’s come at me,” Frank said without surprise. He’d been thinking along similar lines. He took another drag on his cigarette while David chewed on his past midnight snack.

“How is he?” David asked.

“Beat up,” Frank said. “Lost some blood, but Curt says he’ll live. He came to a few times. Not fully conscious but he opened his eyes and looked around.”

Once when Frank had come into his apartment. The door hadn’t even been locked. He’d found Billy on his back, lying on the floor in a dark pool, his phone’s screen dim but not black. He’d kept the line open.

He’d stirred when Frank touched his face, opened his eyes long enough to focus on him, mouthed something that might’ve been Frank’s name before he went under again.

The second time came when they had him laid out on Curt’s kitchen table, just after Curt pulled the jagged shard from his side. His eyes flew open, lips parting with a rasping gasp, head surging up from the surface before Frank could steady him, guide him back. He’d looked up at Frank with his big, wet eyes. Frank had felt it land in his chest like a bit of shrapnel.

Christ, he’d looked so young.

He’d twitched against the table, head cradled between Frank’s big hands, eyes shining and mouth opening and closing. Words rasping in near-silence from his bruised throat, hands reaching for Frank as Curt brought out the sutures.

“He’s in pain,” Frank has said, voice hoarse as if he was on the verge of losing it too. Billy clutched at his shirt, a weak grip. Curt only nodded and reached for the syringe.

“That’s good,” David said, bringing Frank back to the present. He didn’t say anything else right away. Frank listened to the crickets singing in Curt’s azalea bushes. The neighbourhood watch cat had taken up a new position on top of a car. She stared at Frank, her eyes twin mirrors in the light.

“What are you thinking?” David asked.

“You said he left his old position in a hurry,” Frank said. David hummed in agreement through what Frank assumed was a mouthful of a sandwich. “I’m thinking this might’ve been personal.”

David hummed again. “You think he knew the guy?”

“Not sure. I’ll ask him when he wakes up.” Frank leaned his weight against the wall and pulled another drag.

David said nothing at first. Frank waited.

“That… If what you’re thinking is true,” David said, talking carefully around the words he didn’t like to say over an open line. “That could be very bad for us. We don’t need more families coming to town, Frank.”

“I know,” Frank said.

“This isn’t a good time.” David’s voice was low, trembling with restrained tension. “Things are delicate.”

Frank rubbed his brow. “I know.” He did. Better than nearly anyone else. “I’ll keep an eye on it.”

“I want you to do more than that for me,” David said. “I want you to take care of it before it becomes a problem. I don’t want this trouble on my doorstep. I can’t afford it. And if I can’t, then neither can you.”

The mob kind of trouble. Frank pushed a sigh through his nose.

“You should send him away. I get the feeling you aren’t going to, but you should,” David said. “If he’s gonna be a problem, I don’t want him in my city.”

Frank sniffed. He flicked his cigarette away. “He’s not gonna be a problem,” he said.

“You won’t get rid of him, will you?” David asked. Frank didn’t reply, which was answer enough. David sighed and groaned like an old man standing up from his chair. “Fine. I trust you. But if you want to keep him, he’s gonna be your responsibility. I mean it. You gotta feed and walk him.”

“You’re funny,” Frank said.

“Well. So long as we’re clear.” David laughed quietly, briefly. “Man. I wonder if whoever sent that guy knew what they started when they came after your boy,” David said.

Frank looked up at the sky. He couldn’t see anything but the most obvious stars and the brightest planets, and even they were starting to fade. Dawn had started to edge around the horizon, pushing light into the dying dark.

He should’ve denied David’s words, he supposed, but what was the use? He knew Frank better than most people. Even if Billy was reluctant—afraid—to be kept, it didn’t really matter. Frank had already marked him as one of his own.

“I guess they’re about to find out,” David said.

* * *

If there was a non-sleazy way to carry an unconscious person into an apartment under the cover of night, Frank had never found out about it.

Thank god he had his own car. Explaining Billy’s bloody and still-sedated body to a Lyft driver would’ve required verbal tap-dancing that Frank just wasn’t capable of. He pulled Billy from the sprawl of his backseat, cradled him carefully in his arms—a fireman’s carry would’ve risked pulling the stitches Curt had taken pains with—and entered his home.

He didn’t think the Polish ladies would hear him—judging by the concert-level volume the older one liked to listen to her news programs at, she was either deaf or close to it—but his new upstairs neighbour was something of a nosy night owl. More than once Wesley had asked Frank if he’d been out with his ‘special someone’ after hearing him come in late.

Billy slept through the rest of night and most of the next morning, which Curt had warned Frank about. Frank slept a few hours on his couch until his phone alarm went off at 10am, alerting him that Trish would arrive soon to drop off Lola.

“Hey.” Trish stood on Frank’s front porch almost ten minutes later, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and Lola bouncing on her front paws beside her.

Frank might’ve been sleep-deprived but he would have to be dead not to smile at the sight of his dog’s big brown eyes all scrunched up, her tongue lolling out of her mouth. He got on his knees and gave her a hug while she vibrated happily in his arms.

“How’s my favourite girl? Did you have a good time with Trish?” he asked, rubbing her sides. Lola wuffed softly.

Trish leaned against the porch fence, looking clearly amused. “I’m surprised you don’t have a dog voice,” she said.

Frank looked up. “What’s a dog voice?”

He let Lola inside and offered Trish coffee, which she refused. She had places to be, apparently.

“Bodies to dispose of,” she said quietly.

Frank closed the lid of his coffee maker with a snap. “You were there?” he asked.

“Sure was. Me and my sister paid a visit this morning. Your boy killed his attacker with a corkscrew to the temple,” she said.

“I know,” Frank said. He’d seen it. It hadn’t been a clean death. Corkscrews weren’t meant to pierce anything as hard as bone; it looked as if Billy had half bludgeoned, half stabbed the man to death. “Did you find anything on him?” he asked.

“Nothing. No wallet, no ID, not even a fake,” she said. “Nothing in his pockets but a money clip with forty-eight dollars and some loose change. We found a garrotte and a black jack on the floor, both of which we think belonged to him. We also found a switchblade, which my sister is convinced belongs to Beaut.”

“It does,” Frank confirmed.

“Well, I brought it for him,” she said, patting the duffel she’d dropped onto Frank’s table. “And some clothes and other stuff. I’ve never seen so many bottles in a man’s bathroom before. Your pretty boy has a more intense skin care routine than I do.”

“He takes care of himself,” Frank said, a shade defensively.

Trish clicked her tongue. “Well, I’ll give him credit: it shows.”

It did. Frank felt the warmth of second-hand pride. “The other weapons you found,” he said. “What’d you do with them?”

“Took ‘em, of course,” she said, leaning her back against the dining table. “There’s not much we can do with them except throw them away. The apartment’s been scrubbed clean but I don’t think he should go back.”

“He won’t be going anywhere any time soon,” Frank said. “Sounds like the guy who attacked him was a professional.” He leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest.

“Probably,” she said. “But if he was, he was new in town. Between myself and my sister, we know just about every player in this city, and neither of us recognized this guy.”

Frank hummed. He couldn’t even make himself look surprised at the news. His eyes were stinging. Behind him, the machine gurgled and percolated, filling the air with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. He breathed it in, hoping it would knock a few of his brain cells to life.

“How is he?” Trish asked.

Frank glanced at the closed door of his bedroom. “He’ll live,” he said.

Trish looked as well, her eyes widening. “You didn’t bring him back here, did you?” she asked, lowering her voice to a whisper. Frank shrugged. “Oh, Frank, that’s—.” She stopped herself, glanced at the door again, took a breath and started over. “If this is part of the whole war you and Micro are waging, do you really think it’s a good idea to bring him here? Whoever sent that guy might know where you live.”

“They’d have come for me already if they did,” Frank said. He hesitated, uncertain about continuing. But he’d known Trish for a long time. She’d never done him wrong before. “I think last night was something else. Someone looking to settle a score, maybe.”

“Okay, well, then he’s putting you in danger,” she said. Frank chuckled with a shake of his head. “I’m serious. You might not want to get tangled in the trouble he’s in.”

“God, you’re actually worried about me,” Frank raised his voice to be heard over a particularly loud gargle of water. “That’s sweet. Misguided, but sweet. Trish, I’m not worried about it. I mean, one guy?”

“One guy _so far_ , who went to your boy’s apartment and waited for him to come back,” Trish said. “One guy who stabbed him, choked him, bludgeoned him, and cut him.”

Frank watched her expression change as she took in the look on his face. He turned away. Hearing it spelled out like that, what that scumbag had done to his boy, tapped into that ever-churning current of red rage at his core. He flexed his jaw and timed his breathing until the feeling passed.

“I’m not worried,” Frank repeated, his voice calm when it did. “No one followed me from his place. No one saw me take him to the ‘burbs. We’re safe as houses.”

Trish didn’t look convinced. Maybe it showed on Frank’s face, just how badly he wanted to meet the people behind the attack. She sucked in a short breath through her teeth and patted him on the bicep.

“Just don’t start something you can’t finish. Okay, big guy?”

“I try not to,” Frank said.

* * *

Trish left with a promise to call if she or her sister found anything on the killer. Frank stared at his phone with a cup of coffee at his elbow, scrolling listlessly through the news while he tried not to think. Lola sat at his feet, looking hopeful that he might spontaneously decide to make bacon. He patted her behind her ears.

“You just ate,” he said. Lola’s tongue lolled from her mouth.

A thump from the bedroom made them both jump.

Frank was on his feet and at the bedroom door before his brain could catch up. He found Billy seated on the floor, his head resting against Frank’s mattress. He looked up.

Frank’s heart lurched. Billy was a mess of bruises, burst capillaries painting his skin in shades of violence, the worst of them wrapped around his long neck in black and red and purple. The effects of the sedative hadn’t worn off yet and his expression showed it. He looked at Frank like he was peering through fogged glass, eyes like daubs of black paint under his brows.

“Hey, hey. You’re awake,” Frank said. “Having a little trouble getting your legs under you?” He reached out his hand.

Billy’s gaze slid from Frank down to his outstretched leg. Frank saw that it was, indeed, his bad one. The bandage wrapped around his calf was spotted with red, but it didn’t look any fresher than it had when Frank had stripped him and tucked him into bed a few hours earlier.

“You got stitches,” Frank said when Billy didn’t move. “Curt thinks the shard might’ve hit the bone, so you’re gonna be on antibiotics for a little while.”

Billy squinted at the bandage like he suspected it of trying to cheat him at cards. He was dressed in a pair of clean boxer shorts and a black tank-top, both of which were Frank’s. The tank-top was the smallest Frank owned, one he broke out whenever he was looking to get some attention at the gym. It could hug his chest like an indecent second skin; it looked loose on Billy.

The sight of Billy in Frank’s clothes twanged something deeper than arousal in Frank’s chest.

Billy lifted his hand without looking. Frank took it and hauled him up, pulling Billy close and supporting his weight before he could put it onto his leg. He sat Billy back down onto the mattress.

Billy’s gaze slid around the room, seeming to take in details only to skirt back a second later, as if he couldn’t keep a grip on anything. He checked Frank’s collection of jewellery (watches, rings, necklaces) on the top of his dresser, leaning forward with a frown on his lips, until Frank gently put his hand on his shoulder and guided him back to the stack of pillows he’d built up for him. Billy put up a mild resistance but it didn’t last long. He sank back.

“You got fifty stitches total,” Frank said. He sat beside Billy, his leg folded under him. “Twenty-three in the leg, seven in your temple, another twenty in your side.” He touched his fingers to the spot just under Billy’s ribs, where a glass shard had sliced a ragged line through his skin. He could feel the plastic bandage through the thin fabric of his tank. “Curt did good work but this one might leave a scar, I’m afraid. Right over your tattoos. You’ll have to get them touched up.”

Billy opened his mouth and tried to speak.

It sounded painful; a small, rasping scrape up his damaged throat. Frank put his palm gently over Billy’s lips, hushing him.

“Hey, easy, easy,” he said. “Your throat was badly hurt during the fight. Curt said you’re gonna need to stay quiet for a few days ‘til your larynx heals.”

Oh, that was not a welcome piece of news. Billy glared at Frank like he was the one who’d wrapped his neck up with wire. He opened his mouth and then closed it with a click of his teeth. He then held his hand up to the side of his face, his pinky and thumb extended in the universal phone symbol.

“Hang on,” Frank said.

He found Billy’s cell in the pocket of the blood-stained jeans he’d dropped on the floor. Billy snatched it from his hand, unlocked it with a snap, and pushed out a hard breath when he saw the red bar indicating his battery life.

Billy tapped something out. Frank sat at the edge of the bed, debating whether or not he should leave to give Billy privacy. He wondered just who the hell Billy could possibly be texting (maybe feeling a little jealous) when his pocket buzzed.

‘1. why the hell am i here and 2. who the FUCK IS KURT,’ Billy had written.

“Curt with a ‘c’,” Frank said with a smile. Billy’s lower lid twitched. Frank held his hands up placatingly. “Curt’s a buddy of mine, a former corpsman. Marine medic. He’s been stitching up combat wounds for half his life. He’s good about not asking too many questions. He’s the one who put you back together. We kept you sedated you for the worst of it. Figured you wouldn’t mind. He said he liked your tattoos too, by the way.”

Billy tried to dial up the intensity of his glare, his lips twisted, tugging at the lines that bracketed his wide mouth. It looked painful.

Frank reached out and cupped the side of Billy’s face, ran his thumb over the corner of his lips. It felt like weeks of patience and good work paying off when Billy didn’t flinch away. He tensed under Frank’s hand, and then he relaxed.

“You’re here because you called me,” Frank said. “Do you remember?”

Billy sighed. He rubbed at his eyes, winced at the feel of his no-doubt tender skin, and dropped his hand. He stared at his screen. He typed slowly but it didn’t take long.

‘what happened?’

Frank told him what he knew. He spoke carefully because he could see the effects of the sedative by the way Billy’s eyelids began to droop, the way his shoulders slumped. He lay back in the stack of pillows, head listing like it was too heavy to hold up. Frank edged closer until he could take Billy’s good leg (his calf a mess of smudged purple-grey bruises, but otherwise fine) and slide it into his lap. Feeling again like he’d won something when Billy didn’t pull away.

“So far, no one recognizes the guy who attacked you,” Frank said. He rubbed his hand slowly up and down Billy’s leg, categorizing everything. The firm shape of his muscle, the soft (tenderized, colourful) skin, the small, dark hairs up to the delicate bowl of his knee. “Micro doesn’t think this was related to this thing we’ve got with the Deshauers.”

Billy watched Frank’s hands. His jaw moved, a minor flex in his cheek, but nothing else in his expression so much as twitched.

“Did you know him?” Frank asked.

Billy didn’t look up immediately. When he did, his eyes were glazed, sheltered by his lashes. His closed mouth was slack. Frank gave into temptation and touched him again, curling his hands around the curve of Billy’s skull.

Billy’s gaze flicked back to his phone. He typed ‘everything hurts’.

Frank knew he was being manipulated—knew that Billy was smart enough to find Frank’s levers and pull them—even as he felt it working on him. It helped that Billy probably wasn’t lying.

“I’m not surprised,” Frank said, leaning forward. “You took a hell of a beating.” He pressed a feather-soft kiss on Billy’s forehead, right over the wrinkle between his furrowed brows. His thumb swept across the ridge of his cheek, the edge of his orbital.

Billy swayed forward, his eyelids sinking, breath ghosting across Frank’s chin and neck. Giving Frank just a little bit of his weight to support.

“I’ve got some painkillers for you,” Frank said. He closed the little distance between them and wrapped his other arm around Billy’s narrow shoulders, slotting them together.

He was here, warm and solid and safe in Frank’s bed, dressed in Frank’s clothes, behind a front door that only Frank had the keys to. If anyone came looking for Billy, they would have to come through Frank first.

“You’re gonna need a few days to rest up,” Frank said, lips brushing against Billy’s hair. Billy sighed, relaxing into Frank. “After that, I’m gonna ask you some questions about what happened. Cause I think you know something that you’re not tellin’ us. If not the guy who came for you, then maybe you know the people who sent him.”

Billy stiffened.

Frank smoothed his hair down. “I’m tellin’ you this because I want you to think about it. Because you’re a smart man, Billy Russo. You can figure out what I’m gonna do with the information you give me.” He tucked long strands of Billy’s hair behind his ear, rubbing the pad of his ring finger over the pink crescent, and pulled back.

Billy slumped back, head falling into his pillows.

“But all that can wait,” Frank said as he slid onto his feet. “Just focus on gettin’ better. I’ll get you those painkillers.”

Billy took his pill with a mouthful of water. Frank drew his curtains across his windows, fluffed Billy’s pillow, plugged in his phone and set it onto his nightstand, and gave a pointed nod towards the glass. Billy sighed, took the hint, and drank the rest of it.

“I’ll have something for you to eat when you wake up,” Frank promised. Billy’s eyes were almost completely closed, nothing visible under the fan of his lashes but a faint gleam. Frank brushed his lank hair back from his forehead. “Just take it easy. You’re gonna be okay. I’ll take care of you.”

Billy’s gaze snapped up to Frank’s face. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown, and a red flush had started to form high on his cheeks. Frank could tell his consciousness was slipping away from him, that he was holding on at the fraying edges with a slackening grip. Opioids working through his system like sunlight through an open window, warm and golden.

Déjà vu shivered in Frank’s head, because this was the same look Billy had given him when Frank had found him on the floor of his apartment; desperate and frightened, albeit muted from the drugs. The look of a man who’d been out to sea for a long time, finally catching sight of a distant shore. It made Frank’s heart lurch again, like it was on the other side of a pulled string.

“Relax,” Frank said, for his own benefit as much as Billy’s. He swiped his thumb over Billy’s lower lip. “You’re safe here.”

Billy’s eyes slipped shut, but he made it look like a struggle. He slumped back, asleep once more.

#All of Frank’s friends used to complain bitterly when their girlfriends tried to move in. They acted as if these people they supposedly liked were trying to erode their independence, whip them, tame them.

Frank never understood their fear. Back in the day, when Maria moved another inch of her life into Frank’s, it’d make his heart swell. What good did being alone do him? Eating spaghettios from a can and leaving his laundry on the floor. That was no way to live. He’d started to clean up for Maria because he wanted to make her feel welcome. He learned to cook for himself as much as for her. He wanted her to feel safe with him. He wanted to build something with her. He liked that what was his space was becoming theirs.

She practically moved in after only one month of dating. A toothbrush appeared in the cup Frank kept above his kitchen sink. Her clothes populated and later colonized his dresser. Furniture started appearing. A silver clothing rack in the corner of his room, a coffee table (used, pulled from the curb) in front of his couch, a rolling cart they used as a kind of pantry for cereal, rice, dried beans, cans of food.

She didn’t make it official, although he badly wanted her to. Her parents were strict Catholics. ‘Traditional’ was the word she’d used, hitting the ‘t’ nestled at the centre with a twitch in her expression. Like it hurt her to say.

Frank asked to meet them, again and again. Maria laughed in his face every time.

“What’s the problem?” he asked once, hurt.

“Oh, Frank, honey.” She leaned over and kissed the busted bridge of his nose. “We’ve been over this. If they took one look at your beautiful, bruised face, it’d give them a heart attack.”

The bruises were always a problem. Frank had meant what he’d told Billy; he really was good for nothing back then. Or, rather, nothing that he was good at was any good for him. Or for anyone close to him.

He still fought in the underground octagon but that didn’t really pull in enough money. Mostly, it just gained him a little of what passed for prestige in his circles. People thought twice about starting trouble with Frank Castle. It made him feel like a big man when people’s eyes widened, when they took a step back at the sound of his name.

He primarily made money through shittier versions of the jobs he’d later pull with David. Smash-and-grabs, robberies, some minor intimidation, usually organized by some asshole who owned one nice suit, maybe ran a street, and thought that earned him the right to push other people around. Occasionally things would go rough and Frank would have to shoot a man dead. He was eighteen the first time he killed someone.

The memory of it didn’t haunt him, not the way he expected it to. He’d felt bad at the time, but not very. It worried him, even then, but… not a lot.

It would’ve worried Maria, he supposed, if he’d ever told her.

He gave Maria every good thing he had to offer. Told her every one of his worthless secrets. But not that. He would never talk about the kind of work he did. The things he’d done to people he was hired to hurt. She knew what he did in broad strokes, but he kept the dirty details from her.

Maria would ask, which was hard for him. It was the first time he didn’t want to give her something she asked him for. But what else could he do? He didn’t want anything from that side of him ever touching her, infecting what they had. She didn’t like that he wouldn’t talk. For a long time, it was the only thing they’d argue about.

Frank started taking more jobs. He had to, now that he had a woman to look after. He wanted to buy her nice things, take her out to restaurants where they took your order at the table and then brought it to you. He wanted to rent a house, with real walls and a bathroom they didn’t have to get dressed to go to. He wanted to save up for a ring.

But more jobs meant more trouble, the kind of trouble Frank wasn’t the best at dealing with. He was good—even back then, he was good—but he wasn’t the best. The bruises Maria used to find charming had started to grow and migrate, painting his chest and arms and legs, just as colourful as his tattoos. Frank broke his nose twice in the span of a year. In January, he broke his ribs after falling from a second storey window during an escape from the cops.

“You should take it easy,” Maria told him. She was bundled on his couch, the two of them wrapped up in every blanket he owned, her head tucked into the crook of his neck. He loved the way they fit together.

“Eh, it’ll be fine,” Frank said. “I’m already on the mend. Doc says I’m young enough that I can bounce back pretty quickly.”

A frown tugged at her lips, put wrinkles around her eyes. “Was this at a proper practice, with a licensed physician or was this some quack your buddies dragged you to?”

“Can’t it be both?” Frank asked.

“Frank.” That tone, breathing the word like even the sound of his name exasperated. It put his hackles up. “Take some time off. Stay in with me. We’ll watch movies and pop popcorn.”

He wanted to. “I can’t,” he said.

Her face went dark like the sky before a storm. Frank tensed because he knew what that look was a prelude to.

He loved Maria with his whole, dumb heart, but it was like handing her an arsenal of weapons designed to hurt him and only him. Frank had never met anyone who argued like Maria. She went for his softest parts, every time.

She accused him of not loving her, of being too much of a coward to apply for a real job, of being a deadbeat in the making, of valuing his own stupid, stunted masculinity over what he had with her. What did he get from being such a tough guy, anyway? She predicted his future like a fortune teller in a horror movie. He’d end up with a broken body, a drooling vegetable, and no one to look after him. Is that what he wanted?

Of course not. He wanted her, he only wanted her, but he couldn’t change who he was. He didn’t want to give up what he did. He didn’t see the reason for it. He was young. He was good. He would only get better. She needed to understand that.

She begged him to give it up. Every time, she begged him to leave that life behind. She kept framing it like a choice he was making over her rather than because of her.

Maria was right about Frank. He was a coward. He was afraid of what would happen to him if he didn’t have this job. It terrified him to think of what kind of man he would become if he wasn’t allowed to hurt people.

And then one day, Frank’s work followed him home.

He came back to the apartment on some balmy September night to find Maria in the kitchen, perched at one end of their beat-up dining table, with two guys seated opposite her and three cups of coffee between them.

“Hi, Frank,” she said, her face white as paper. “You have visitors.” She gestured to the two toughs in Frank’s home, in his kitchen, within arms’ reach of his girl. “Friends of yours.”

They weren’t. Frank’s grip tightened on the strap of his duffel.

“Hey, hey, Frankie,” the bigger guy said, cracking a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Hope you don’t mind we dropped by. We wanted to talk shop and we ran into Maria here.”

“She’s been a peach,” the other guy said.

“You’re a lucky man.” He watched Frank’s face.

Frank had a pistol in the second drawer beside the sink. Kept loaded for situations just like this. Maria’s massive butcher’s knife was on the counter. She bought a meat tenderizer, kept in the cutlery drawer.

The two men—who Frank knew by face but not name—were within easy reach of Maria. The bigger guy could have a fistful of her hair faster than Frank could get his hands on a weapon.

“We wanted to talk to you,” the smaller guy said.

Frank’s nostrils flared. “Let’s talk outside,” he said.

They agreed, to his relief. They’d made their point.

He got rid of them downstairs. He kept his voice down while he did. They made their threats and he made his.

“We’ll keep our eye on you, Frank,” big man said.

“Thank your girl for us.” The other smiled.

Frank took Maria into his arms when he came back, pet her hair while she shook and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

“Who were they?” she asked, again and again. “Frank, who were they? Are they coming back?”

He tightened his hold on her. “No,” he said, his voice shaking. “No. No, they’ll never come back.”

Frank held her all night. They didn’t talk much. She didn’t sleep well. He stayed up ‘til dawn, keeping watch. He saw the light fade in through their tall windows, creep across the floor, chasing shadows to hide behind his furniture, in the folds of their clothes.

He knew it was over. Maria couldn’t stay with him. He could leave his job, they could leave New York, but would that be any safer? If Frank didn’t have an outlet for his rage, what kind of man would he become? What would he do? Boxing at the gym wouldn’t help. Driving over the speed limit wouldn’t help.

Nothing else could help. He knew what kind of man he was. He needed to hurt people.

It wasn’t safe for Maria to stay with him, regardless of what he chose. He buried his face in her long hair, his eyes stinging.

In the end, he couldn’t make himself do it. He didn’t need to. When he got home that evening with a bag of take-out, he was alone. Maria’s knife was gone and there was a note on the table.

* * *

Frank called Gleason and told him he’d be unavailable for the next few days, which went about as well as he expected.

Frank put his phone on the counter while he fixed himself a sandwich, listening to Gleason’s insect voice scratch its way from the tinny speakers. Lola stood behind him, watching him spread peanut butter with big, hopeful eyes.

He scrutinized his pantry for soft foods, spilling bread crumbs on his floor and made a grocery list. By the time he’d finished this, Gleason had hung up on him. Frank yawned and checked on Billy. Still asleep.

Frank stood for a moment in the doorframe, watching Billy’s chest rise and fall.

Lola came up beside him, still hunting for peanut butter. She licked his hand when he tried to pet her and stared at the bed with typical dog amazement.

“He’s gonna stick around for a while,” Frank said quietly as he ushered her out. Lola whined softly.

He sacked out on the couch, flipping through reality television marathons and eating a second peanut butter, honey and jam sandwich. Somewhere between one episode of Chopped and another, Frank dozed off with Lola at his feet. He woke up hours later to his phone rattling on his glass-top coffee table, buzzing like an angry beetle towards the ledge. Lola thumped her skinny tail against his knee as he pushed himself up and checked the screen.

‘a leather couch?’

Frank’s head snapped around to find Billy standing on the other side of the couch, leaning over the back with his arms folded on top of a cushion.

“Shit.” Frank shoved the blanket off of his legs. Lola whined as he extracted himself. She put her head down with a huff while he stood. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.” He didn’t mean to make it sound like an accusation, but Billy had caught him off-guard.

Billy made a face as he typed on his phone.

‘i’m not an invalid i can still walk’

“You went ass-over-teakettle before,” Frank said. Billy made another face, typing furiously, as Frank took his arm and guided him to the spot he’d just vacated.

‘i was sedated against my will you dick & i wasn’t expecting my leg to hurt & i DID NOT FALL i just sat down.’

“How are you feeling? You hungry?” Frank stretched his arms, brushing the tips of his fingers against the ceiling as he walked into the attached kitchen. He looked over his shoulder to find Billy scowling at him. “You might wanna lighten up on the frowns, beautiful. It can’t be good for your bruises.”

Billy opened his mouth and licked his tongue across his incisors, a sort of primitive threat display that just made Frank’s heart flutter. Frank waited patiently, hip braced against the kitchen island he’d bought from Ikea last year, while Billy tapped out another reply.

‘1. fuck you i don’t need your advice it sounds like bullshit anyway & 2\. no comment on the whole non-consensual sedation huh?’

“You make me sound like such a creep when you put it like that,” Frank complained as he turned away. “It wasn’t like I was getting any kicks out of it. You were barely conscious and in pain. A guy with medical experience told me it would be for the best.” His phone buzzed in his hand as he searched through his pantry.

‘that sounds pretty defensive… you sure you didn’t enjoy it?’

Now it was Frank’s turn to scowl at his phone. He stuffed it into his pocket.

“Nothing about last night did me any kind of good,” he said, slamming the cupboard shut. He felt Billy’s gaze prickle the back of his neck. “You hungry? I got a couple cans of soup that should be alright for your throat. Hope you’re not a vegetarian. What’s your preference?” He turned around at last, a can of soup in each hand. “I got Creamy Thai Chicken and I got Korean Beef and Noodle.”

Billy stared at him from over the back of the couch, his chin resting in his folded arms. His eyes had that glazed quality again, black and glittering like ice melting on pavement. He pointed at the can of beef soup in Frank’s right hand.

Frank poured the contents into a small pot and turned the heat to medium high. He stood in front of it, wooden spoon tapping against his hip, when his phone buzzed again.

‘do you know how to cook?’

He glanced over to Billy, who was still draped over the back of Frank’s couch like a blanket, his cheek resting in the crook of his elbow.

“Ehh, a little,” Frank said as he stirred. “I can make good breakfast and I know how to grill damn near anything. I got pretty good with pasta too. When your throat’s in better shape, maybe I can fix you a proper meal.”

‘i had you figured for a bbq guy.’

“You’re figuring me out, are you?” Frank smiled over his shoulder. “Is that how I come across to people? As a grill guy?” he asked while Billy typed.

‘you come across as the kind of guy who calls himself the grill king.’

“I’ve never,” Frank said earnestly as Billy continued.

‘i bet you have an apron with some stupid motto written on it. eat my meat. try the sausage.’

Frank could feel the back of his neck grow warm. “Those were gifts,” he said. Billy’s laugh wheezed from his throat.

They ate in the living room. Billy took control of the remote and flipped through channels while Frank held his bowl away from Lola’s snout.

“Down,” he said sternly as she nudged at his knees. “I’m gonna have to take her out for a w-a-l-k soon. She’s been cooped up all day.”

Billy shrugged. He settled on Animal Planet, which was showing a documentary about arctic sharks, sat back and resumed eating. Lola gave him a hopeful look, her tail thumping, which he completely ignored.

“Stop that.” Frank rubbed her ears. “Sorry about the begging. It’s something I’ve been trying to work on but I haven’t had the time. Go on, Lola. Go to your bed.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to the kennel in the corner of the room. She huffed and slunk away.

Billy watched her go, chewing slowly.

“Have I ever told you how I got her?” Frank asked. Billy shook his head and blew on his spoon.

“She’s a rescue,” Frank said. “I found her in some scumbag’s flop. I was there on a job—their boss’d pissed off Micro, stiffed him on a payment, so I was there to collect. They were kind of armed—guns on the table and not in their pants, you know? And they were fucked up on payday heroin. It didn’t take long.

“I found her in the backyard, chained up. I think they wanted her to be a vicious attack dog or something but she was just a puppy and she wasn’t in good shape. I did the thing you’re not supposed to do and tried to untie her from the post.” He dropped his spoon into his bowl and held up his right arm. “See that crescent mark there? The break in the flames?”

Billy leaned forward to examine the spill of ink on Frank’s forearm. He tapped his finger on the curve of faded scar tissue.

“That’s right,” Frank said. “That’s her. Twenty-eight stitches. Pit’s have got a hell of a bite. Fucked me up so bad the docs thought I might have limited use of my hand.” He grinned at Billy. “Luckily for you, I retained full dexterity.”

Billy huffed. He reached for his phone, balancing his bowl between his knees.

“Thank god I only had to knock her out,” Frank said as Billy typed. “I was afraid I’d have to put a bullet in her. I’d’ve never forgiven myself.”

Billy glanced up at that, his eyebrows arched.

‘why the FUCK would you adopt an animal that mauled your arm???’

Frank set his phone aside and dug his spoon through the stew. “Because it wasn’t her fault. She was scared and hurt and she only knew one way to deal with it. I rescued her because I wanted to show her she could have something else. I’m glad I did,” he added, nodding at where Lola lay with her head on her folded paws. “It paid off. I mean, just look at her. She’s the best.”

Lola thumped her tail. Billy stared at her, slowly stirring his spoon. He turned back to Frank and twirled his finger an inch from his temple, the universal symbol for crazy.

“Maybe.” Frank smiled. “But you’ll never convince me I didn’t do the right thing. You don’t like dogs?” he asked. Billy shrugged and ate another spoonful of stew. “You’ll like my dog. She’s shy with strangers—especially men—but I can already tell she’s gonna like you.”

Billy gave him a sceptical look, his cheek bulging. Frank gave into the temptation he’d been fighting against all afternoon and leaned forward, placed a soft kiss over Billy’s brow.

“She will,” he said, confident. “She likes everyone I like.”  

* * *

After lunch, Frank took Lola out for an hour. They walked around the neighbourhood and went to the dog park, where she had a half hour of supervised play with her friends (a huskie mix named Vermont and a purebred shar pei named Tallulah).

By the time Frank clipped her leash back on, the sun had begun to sink towards the western horizon, glaring gold into his eyes as he made his way back home.

Billy was sprawled out on the couch when he returned, bare legs tangled in a blanket, his face half-buried in the pillow Frank had brought out for him, illuminated by a nature documentary on the television. Frank released Lola, who immediately trotted to her bed. He knelt down and placed a kiss behind Billy’s ear.

Billy stirred, one arm stretched out and flailing for his phone. Frank plucked it from the coffee table and dropped it into Billy’s hands.

“You should keep it on you,” Frank said as he turned towards his kitchen. He dropped his reusable tote bag onto the counter and started sorting through his groceries.

His phone hummed and chimed in tandem.

‘why do you keep kissing me’

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Frank scoffed, glancing over his shoulder. “Those painkillers must be doin’ a number on you, sweetheart. That’s a stupid question.”

Billy peeked over the back of the couch, his eyes narrowed. His straight, thick hair had fallen into his forehead and over his flushed cheeks, hanging loose around his face.

Frank’s heart squeezed.

“Christ,” he muttered, turning back to his task. “It’s a miracle I can ever stop myself from kissing you.”

‘you must love this.’

“Which part?” Frank asked, raising his voice to be heard from the depths of his vegetable crisper.

‘having me trapped in your apartment like this. i can’t leave with this injury.’

Frank swallowed, his grip tightening on the edge of his phone. Heat churned in his chest, a legion of angry sentiment looking for an escape through his mouth, the feeling familiar and painful. Five, ten years ago, he would’ve indulged it. He could feel Billy’s gaze on his back.

He breathed out instead, the heat of what he wouldn’t do burning his lips with the exhale.

Billy got mean when he was nervous, he reminded himself. He put his phone back into his pocket.

“I like having you around,” Frank said as he put carrots and cucumbers away. “You already know that. I don’t like the circumstances that brought you here. I really don’t like what I walked in on last night.” The memory threatened Frank with the image of Billy sprawled out on the floor in a pool so dark it looked black, even after Frank turned on the light. He sniffed, dismissing it, and looked over his shoulder. “I miss hearin’ you talk.”

All Frank could see was the top of Billy’s face, his eyes squeezed tight by the pull of his lids and the furrow of his brow. He searched Frank’s expression like a man rooting through someone else’s suitcase, looking for incriminating evidence.

Frank straightened, knocking his fridge closed with his heel. He sauntered back to Billy, who watched him closely, his hand gripping the leather cushion tight.

Frank’s heart squeezed again, a hollow feeling pulsing through him in sympathy. He was reminded again of what he’d noticed before, any of the other times Billy had let his guards slip.

There was no softness in Billy, no room for it in the image he’d built for himself, but every time Frank caught a glimpse of what lay beneath that armour, he saw the truth. Billy was human, despite his best efforts, despite the wildness in him. He had the same wants and needs as every other person, the same fears, the same hurts.

Nobody wanted to be alone.

“How are you feelin’?” Frank asked.

Billy’s gaze slid down to the phone clutched in his other hand. He tapped his thumb on the little keyboard but didn’t produce any words.

“You in any pain?” Frank asked.

Billy’s chest moved in a silent sigh. His phone slipped from his hand onto the couch. He sank back down into the cushions, put his hand over his wounded side, and gave a tired nod.

Frank reached down and pushed a few limp strands of hair back from his face. “I’ll get you some more T3s.”

Billy leaned his face into Frank’s palm, his exhale puffing against Frank’s skin.

“I got some ice cream, too, if you want it,” Frank said.

Billy perked up at that. Frank smiled, leaned down and placed a soft kiss at the corner of his lips.

Billy caught him before he could straighten, his hand curled loosely around the side of Frank’s neck, and pulled him back down for another kiss.

It was an awkward angle, Frank half-sprawled over the back of his couch, but he didn’t mind. Billy pushed against Frank’s mouth, tried to rough him up with his lips, but Frank touched the side of his face, gentled him with soft pressure, with a slow and careful swipe of his tongue.

Frank could feel the movement of Billy’s swallow under his fingers. He sank back onto his pillow, his eyelashes fluttering against Frank’s cheek as he chased him, lengthened their kiss just a little bit longer.

When he finally broke away, Billy’s eyes were closed, his breath puffing through his pink, wet lips. Frank’s fingers brushed against the ring of bruises around his throat, light and considerate over the evidence of recent violence.

Billy opened his eyes and Frank smiled down at him.

“I’ll get you that ice cream,” he said. Billy sighed again and nodded.

Billy settled after that, like a feral brought in from the cold to rest. Frank handed him a bowl of chocolate and peanut butter fudge ice cream and wondered what it might be like to lure him in for good.

Billy sagged against Frank’s side. On screen, a man played with a wild ocelot. Feeling bold, Frank set his bowl aside, lifted his arm and draped it over Billy’s shoulders. Billy relaxed into that space, legs curled, his head against Frank’s chest, tucked under Frank’s chin. It felt like a reward, all the cherries lining up in a row, the lights flashing and the musical clatter of a jackpot playing out inside Frank’s chest.

You’re not so tough, Frank thought, hideously fond. He swept his thumb across Billy’s bare shoulder, brushing the line of his scars.

Night sunk into the sky, bleeding dark from the top down, until the line of fire gold around the horizon extinguished completely. Early July meant a long evening and a short night but Frank liked what they got. The rattle of central air through the vents, the murmur of dramatic music stings and voices from the television, and the fading birdsong from outside wrapped around the apartment like a blanket. Lola gnawed on her bone, a wet click of teeth from her kennel in the corner.

Billy’s breathing slowed, grew deeper and even. Frank risked a peek and saw that his eyes were closed and his lips parted.

Frank wasn’t the bravest man around but he liked to think there were certain things he wouldn’t run from, even when it might’ve been the smart thing to do. He hadn’t run from Maria, not even when things went sour between them and every word she gave him was a needle in his heart.

When things had ended, it’d nearly killed him. He was so young, driven half-crazy by the strength of his too-big, too-faithful heart, that he really had thought part of him had died.

He knew now that he had been wrong. He could feel that lost part now, like a sense he’d regained the use of after ten years of nothing. This could be trouble, he knew.

But it could also be pretty great. He bent down and kissed Billy’s hair, squeezed his shoulder. Billy stirred.

“Sorry,” Frank said softly while Billy blinked at the screen. “You dozed off there. I think maybe it’s time for bed.”

Billy yawned and nodded. Frank gave his shoulder another squeeze and helped him to his feet.

“Want me to carry you?” he asked, only sort of joking.

Billy gave him a thoughtful look. He tilted his head, one eyebrow arched, and leaned his weight into Frank. A silent question or maybe a challenge.

_Would you?_

“Darling, I would carry you over every threshold in the city,” Frank said.

Billy shook his head, laughing silently as Frank grabbed his phone from the table. He knelt down and swept Billy into a bridal carry. Billy yawned again and wrapped his arms around Frank’s neck.

He set him down carefully among his sheets. Even with the air on, it was too hot for Frank’s comforter. Billy stretched out, his long limbs pale against the navy bedding.

“I got you some clothes from your place, if you want to change,” Frank said.

Billy shook his head. He released the tension from his trembling legs with a low exhale. Frank eased onto the mattress beside him, seated with his legs folded. Billy looked up at Frank. He plucked at the fabric of his tank-top and raised his eyebrow in question.

“Yeah, it’s one of mine. What, you think I just got other people’s clothes lyin’ around? What kind of life do you think I’m leadin’ here?” Frank asked.

Billy raised and lowered his eyebrows in a kind of facial shrug.

“Huh,” Frank said, drawing his fingers around the curve of Billy’s jaw. “I see how it is. You think I’m easy.”

Billy mouthed something at him that Frank couldn’t even hope to catch. He brushed his thumb over Billy’s lips.

“I might be, a little,” Frank allowed. “But despite what you might think, I’m not usually in the habit of bringing people back here. Lola gets nervous around strangers and I hate cleanin’ for company.”

Billy tilted his head and tapped the centre of his chest with his index finger.

“Yeah, I do it for you. You’re different.” Frank leaned down until he could breathe his next words over Billy’s mouth. “You’re special.” And kissed him.

Billy didn’t try to push him this time. He lay back, relaxed into Frank’s bed, lips warm and tasting of sweet chocolate fudge. He curled his hand around Frank’s bicep, tugged him down.

Frank went, taking care to tuck himself against Billy’s uninjured side, to distribute his weight to avoid putting pressure on anything that might’ve been sore. He slipped his hand under the hem of his tank-top, fingers skimming the crinkled white edge of the stick-on bandage curved around his side and stomach. His forearm braced above Billy’s head, hand wound into the loose strands on his pillow, dark locks like rivulets of ink between his fingers.

“Hey,” Frank whispered, pulling back at the feel of hands working at his waistband. “What’re you thinkin’?”

Billy huffed, a puff of warm breath against Frank’s wet lips. Even in the dim light from outside, Frank could see the furrow of Billy’s brow.

“C’mon.” Frank nosed at Billy’s cheek, kissed along the line of his jaw. “No need for any of that. Just relax…”

That earned him another huff and a hand groping his dick through the thin material of his gym shorts. Frank laughed and dropped his head onto the pillow.

“Christ, you’re insatiable,” he mumbled while Billy pushed his hand past the elastic waistband of his underwear. “Hey, hey.” Frank caught him by the wrist and pulled his hand out. “You’ve got an injury.”

Billy pushed out a hard breath through his nose, something like a growl rasping in his throat. Frank cupped the top of Billy’s head, ran his thumb through his hair, and put his captive wrist down on the pillow.

“None of that,” Frank said, voice firm and quiet, releasing Billy’s hand. “I don’t want you pulling any stitches ‘cause you got all worked up. If you want this—” Frank gripped himself through his shorts. “—then you’re gonna lie back and take it exactly how I give it to you. We clear on that?”

Billy’s eyes glittered in the dark. His breathing quickened, throat clicking with a swallow. Strips of weak light fell across his face and chest, the street lamps shining through the parted curtains. Frank traced their path with his fingers. He dipped his head and chased it with his mouth, kissing soft along the shelf of Billy’s collarbone.

Billy lay back, relaxing into the embrace of Frank’s pillows, and sighed. Frank knew a surrender when he got one.

Frank couldn’t remember the last time he was so slow, so careful. He opened Billy up one torturous inch at a time, like he was Billy’s first, until Billy was writhing with frustration, pushing back on Frank’s hand, his arousal hard and hot on his stomach. Frank leaned up to give it a single lick, from base to tip, just to feel Billy tremble.

“Relax,” Frank murmured as Billy tossed his head to the side, panting, open-mouthed into his pillow. “You’re all worked up like I’m tryin’ to hurt you.” He teased at Billy’s rim before nudging a third finger inside, down to the first knuckle. “You need to take it easy. Enjoy yourself. You know I’ll take care of you.”

Billy’s chest shook. Frank glanced up to see the light curving around the wrinkles of Billy’s lips, pulled up in a smile.

“You laugh,” Frank said, lowering himself back to the tip of Billy’s dick. “But you know I’m right.” He opened his mouth and swallowed him down, thrusting his fingers in tandem. Billy twitched, gasping.

Frank worked him over good, lavishing his tongue against the underside of Billy’s cock while he fucked him with short easy thrusts, fingers curling on each out-stroke, brushing against his prostate until he could feel Billy start to tremble like a building on the verge of collapse.

People weren’t meant to last against that kind of treatment, although Billy did his best. Frank hollowed his cheeks, swallowed Billy down until the tip of his dick touched the back of his throat, until he could kiss the skin of Billy’s pelvis. Billy’s fingers wound their way through Frank’s curls, bunching into a fist at the back of his head, holding Frank in that moment, hips lifting, until Frank’s throat began to spasm.

He pulled back and Billy let him, pulled his fingers out, leaving Billy empty. Billy panted, his feet sliding against the covers, his fingers yanking at Frank’s hair, a battered whine working its way from his throat.

“You are so gorgeous,” Frank said. He flattened one hand across Billy’s stomach, pushing him slowly back to the bed. “So beautiful I can barely stand it. What am I gonna do with you? Hm?”

Billy could barely groan, the sound weak and quiet. Frank hushed him. He crawled up the length of his body, distributing his weight to hold Billy down without hurting him, until they were face-to-face.

Billy’s eyes were perfect and Frank kept trying to come up with ways to describe them, poetic terms he could break out to make Billy blush and sneer. They were like glass beads, like a painted doll’s, black and shiny. They were like the surface of a pool at night. Like black diamonds if they were real. Like a precious gemstone that only Frank knew about, one he got to name.

Billy mouthed something, his hand clutching the back of Frank’s head. Frank lowered himself slowly and kissed him. He lifted Billy’s leg, the hot head of his cock nudging against his slick entrance, and slid inside. Pushed until he had nothing left to give, Billy panting against his lips.

Frank fucked him slow and easy, with languid, sliding strokes, hitting deeper with each thrust. Billy lifted his hips, hands falling down to Frank’s shoulders, tried to curl around him, but Frank kept a closer eye on his wounds than Billy bothered to.

“Hey, hey, easy,” Frank murmured against Billy’s lips. “What’d I tell you? Lie back and take what you’re given.”

Billy made a sound like a groan and a whine. Frank guided him back down and kissed him into silence. He wrapped his hand around Billy’s dick, still slick from Frank’s mouth, and stroked him from base to tip.

It didn’t take long. Frank might have been a little cruel before, winding Billy up until he was ready to come apart, but Frank wanted to see it happen. He loved watching Billy come so hard it made him gasp, or shout, or brought tears to his eyes. Made the iron grip of his control slip, just for a second.

Frank hissed as Billy clenched tight around him, spilling over Frank’s fist, breathing hard like he’d swam the length of the east river. Frank ducked his head into the hollow created between Billy’s neck and shoulder, breathed in the scent of salt, of bare skin, of stinging alcohol and the faint metallic note of dried blood, until Billy’s breathing settled, his grip on Frank relaxing.

 _Here_ , Frank thought, his blood singing with unspent energy. _Here_ and _safe_ , whole and alive, in Frank’s bed, where no one else would ever touch him, would ever hurt him. Frank would cut any man down who tried. No one would take him from Frank, not ever again.

Billy made a quiet noise, the sound like a single question mark, as Frank pulled out. Frank raised himself on his forearm, pinned above Billy’s head, and kissed Billy’s parted lips.

“Don’t worry about me,” Frank whispered as he began to stroke himself. “Just you lie back and look good.”

Billy laughed, a silent, exhausted exhalation against Frank’s face. He wrapped his arms around Frank’s neck and pulled him back down for a slow, sweet kiss. Frank came not long after, moaning into Billy’s mouth.

He cleaned them both up, checking Billy’s bandages to ensure no fresh blood had been spilled before settling down at Billy’s uninjured side, placing his arm down on Billy’s waist, curling around him.

Billy’s breathing had already begun to even out. He wound his fingers through Frank’s hair, playing with the curls until his movements slowed and went slack.

Frank stayed awake a little while longer, listening to Billy breathe, watching the blue light and long shadows stretch across his ceiling. Listening for cars, for any movement outside. Keeping watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who's left a comment, kudos, bookmark, whatever you got. i appreciate it. :"|
> 
> can you tell i love domestic fluff? i'm on tumblr: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank's spoiling might just be a prelude to being tamed, but Billy might not mind too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pulls up in a truck labelled 'gay nonsense'* beep beep delivery
> 
> Thank you again to Jun/ssealdog for beta'ing!

Codeine made for strange dreams. Billy had forgotten.

He’d read somewhere that the average dream lasted around five minutes, but it always felt longer. That night, Billy had a stream of them, interconnected images slick like oil on the surface of the water—

Of the little pond at the centre of the island where he and his family had gone for vacation. It wasn’t a nice place. The house they were staying in was falling apart, paint peeling in parts and bulging in others, like pustules on a sick body, its blue form slumped over the pebble beach on stilts that couldn’t support it for much longer. The only water they had access to was the little land-locked pond at the centre of the island that smelled and tasted like gasoline, the water black and stagnant and filled with bits of dead and dying plants. It got deep and black but it never felt cold. Billy could see his pale limbs like dead branches in the murk. Boats lounged like alligators in the shallows, imposing and painted white, each named after a type of gun, all of them leaking machine oil.

Billy and the other kids tried to keep their distance but the boats took up so much space and when Billy looked up he could see Lucas, the boy he used to know, used to trust, standing in a pair of blue board shorts, pale legs with dark hair like insect legs up to his knees, an admiral’s hat on his head, dark eyes squinting out at the horizon. Billy ducked underwater before he was spotted but that was dangerous because people were riding their jetskis, slicing through the water with a sound like a chainsaw.

Billy must’ve escaped somehow and their trip continued because the next thing he understood was that he was on a ferry and they were crossing storm-tossed waters at night. They were on one of the great lakes, but the waves built up like oceanic mountains of white-crested black.

They weaved their way through the string of islands where the rich people lived, cold wind snapping at their legs and faces. The islands were dark and solid, all lit up like Christmas, each house a golden sprinkle scattered across a black cake, roads turned into ribbons of light. They encircled an emptiness at the centre, maybe another body of water like the one he’d just left. Maybe a sinkhole at the heart of the community.

Billy thought about how nice it would be to visit these places, but he recalled someone telling him that everything was expensive there because it had to come from the mainland. Bottles of Chivas Regal cost three times as much as it would back home. He was cold and getting colder, wondering if they could make a stop at the Walmart so he could buy himself a sweater, when he felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist, a body like a furnace pressing against his back, a brush of lips at his neck.

They made it to the other island, the one for poor people. Sand and discarded palm leaves had blown across the roads, debris from a recent storm. A woman Billy recognized but didn’t know wished him congratulations and then told him she and her Maid of Honour were going to go looking for a place to get married. Billy intended to join them but he went looking for a popsicle to eat instead and when he got back they were already gone.

The house was a mess; people had come and they had taken over. No one was being careful. The carpets were stained with cat vomit and spilled coffee, a trail of splotches like islands in the ocean, leading up the stairs and into one of his foster brother’s old rooms. The closet was stuffed full with clothes that didn’t fit and Billy realised he was still cold even though it was supposed to be summer, but he didn’t want to wear his brother’s clothes. They looked dirty and they smelled like cats and coffee. He was tired and all he could think of was how badly things needed to be cleaned but no one was going to do anything, it would have to be him. It would take him a long time to put everything back in order and the mess would just grow when he had his back turned.

Frank found him up there, standing in the centre of the room, reluctant to touch anything. He grabbed Billy’s arm and pulled him into the hall and Billy saw blood dripping down his wrist, streaming from a mangle of flesh on his forearm. Frank took him to a master bedroom with sand on the floor, pointed to the corner where a dog sat with its mouth open and its tongue lolling and said, _Look! She had puppies._

* * *

Awareness came with a struggle, and kept sliding out of Billy’s hold. He knew he was in bed but he forgot whose. The pillowcase smelled like fabric softener and a little like dried blood. His head hurt. It wasn’t the throb of a hangover but something deeper, more persistent, like a tapping from the inside of his skull. A sound swelled in his chest but it suffocated before it could reach his mouth, too big to squeeze from the aching vice grip of his throat. And then Billy remembered.

His head hurt because of the stitches in his temple. He had stitches because a man in his apartment had tried to kill him with his bare hands.

Like the sun breaking through the clouds at last, that revelation brought illumination to everything else, a jumble of information Billy processed the way he processed knowledge in a dream. Everything he owned was somewhere else, he was in pain, he couldn’t speak, and he’d called Frank to come and help him.

And Frank had, of course. No part of Billy had doubted that. He could admit as much to himself.

Frank had gotten him fixed up and taken him back to his home, introduced him to his dog, took care of him, fed him, fucked him, all while ignoring Billy’s attempts to needle him into a blow up. Fallen asleep beside him. Billy knew that the warmth and weight on his chest and waist came from Frank.

He could hear him breathing, the noise of it deep and steady as the waves. Still, Billy kept his eyes closed, as if the surreality of his dreams were something he could keep into the waking world, a shroud he could throw over himself to avoid seeing or being seen clearly. He tried to linger in that space where being with Frank was just something his mind came up with in a fog.

Was that really what he wanted? The thought came to him unbidden, rising like driftwood pulled from the ocean floor. For it all to have been a dream? The injuries, the life-and-death struggle, sure, but… Frank?

He opened his eyes.

Frank lay beside him, his arm around Billy’s chest, one leg hooked around Billy’s calf, his head resting on Billy’s shoulder, clinging to him like a barnacle. At some time during the night, Billy had thrown his arm out and Frank had taken it as an invitation, using it like a neck pillow. Billy wiggled his fingers, wincing at the pins and needles feeling that shot down to his wrist. He let it drop back onto the mattress and sighed.

Frank didn’t stir.

Billy considered his next move, but as soon as he tried, he came to terms with three immediate problems.

He was injured. Not to the point of enfeeblement but enough that his mobility, not to mention his ability to communicate, was now limited.

Someone wanted him dead. Someone who knew where to find him. Billy had a pretty good idea of who this someone was but he didn’t dwell on it. He earmarked that issue for later consideration.

Finally, his apartment was, in all likelihood, completely fucked.

The fight had only lasted a few minutes and hadn’t gone any further than his combination living room/kitchen, but he could recall no fewer than three things destroyed in that time, including his television. That hurt, when he thought about it, and not just because it’d been his head that’d broken it. He’d spent the first two thou he could spare on that flatscreen. An OLED that made the nature channel look better than the real thing.

Well, whatever. No point in crying over destroyed furniture. He hoped his renter’s insurance covered home invasion and attempted murder.

Hard to tell what time of day it was. The sun must’ve been up but its light was weak and grey. Billy couldn’t hear rain but he could feel its potential in the air, even with the A/C pumping a cool, steady breeze. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep. It felt like a year.

Four problems, he realised. He had four problems. The fourth, and most immediate, was Frank.

Frank who weighed about as much as a freight cart and felt about as unmovable without the help of heavy equipment. Frank who slept like he’d been drugged. Frank, with his sweetheart pink lips parted, his breath washing across Billy’s bare chest, his arm heavy and warm across his stomach. Long lashes spread around the bowl of his deep-set brows, cheek crushed against Billy’s skin.

He looked sweet.

Billy tried to stomp on the thought but it was too late, it’d grown legs and started running through his head before he could stop it. Frank looked sweet while he slept, completely at ease, as if Billy were just some cute guy he’d picked up in a bar. A harmless, pretty little thing who worked a normal job, who got his workout at the gym and not in bare knuckle fights for his life. Like they could live like normal people and Billy wasn’t something dangerous.

Billy traced his finger along the defined edge of Frank’s lips, marvelling at the way he slept through even that. If he wanted to make an escape, he would have to push Frank off first. It might wake Frank up—or maybe it wouldn’t. Billy brushed his fingers over Frank’s brows, up to the curls on the top of his head, working through the thick locks.

If Billy wanted to get out, he would need to move quickly. Find his clothes (hadn’t Frank mentioned someone brought him something?), find his wallet, get dressed (which would probably hurt), find a place to stay, a place where the people after him couldn’t find him.

He’d probably have to buy himself some bandages, some painkillers, and whatever else medical supplies he’d need to treat his injuries. Getting a hotel room for the night without using his voice wasn’t impossible, but it did sound like a pain in the ass. He’d have to buy food. And suppose he opened his stitches accidentally? Who would help him get closed up again?

It would be annoying, all of it, but he could probably do it alone. He’d been self-reliant for years—thirty of ‘em, as a point of fact. He could manage a cut in his leg (and side and head) and the loss of his voice. Christ, he hadn’t needed anyone up until this point.

But the more he thought about it, the more things he added to the list of shit he’d have to do to make his get-away.

How would he get a ride? Suppose he’d have to get a Lyft but those assholes were so chatty and anyway, everyone would be able to see the bruises around his neck. Suppose those who’d come looking for him had passed his description around town? Suppose they offered a reward?

Even getting dressed would be a pain. Everything felt tender and stiff. He’d be uncomfortable in anything but a pair of cotton shorts and a tank. God, he’d have to put on shoes, which meant bending down and his stomach hurt and so did his leg, and what about a shower, he would need to shower…

It all weighed him down. The air of Frank’s bedroom felt crisp and cool, but under the covers, with Frank velcro’d to his side, it felt pleasantly warm. Like a nice bath. He relaxed.

It was all too overwhelming. He would just have to make a list. First thing’s first and all that. Make the list and then he would get up. He would leave. Absolutely…

The next time Billy woke up it felt like falling backwards into his body, like sleep was a sheet someone snapped away from the bed.

“Hey, sorry,” Frank said quietly. He was seated at the edge of the bed, his phone in one hand. He smoothed Billy’s hair down, guided him back to the pillows. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Billy sighed, his eyes closing. He flexed the feeling back into his previously numb hand and rolled over onto his side, reaching for the phone Frank had left plugged in on his bedside table.

“You don’t need to get up,” Frank said, voice quiet and sleep-rough. “It’s still pretty early.”

Billy’s phone flashed the time. It was almost 11am.

“If it’s still in the AM, it’s still early,” Frank said with a smile. “Anyway, point is, you’re supposed to take it easy. A body at rest is a body more likely to heal faster.”

That sounded like a saying, but a bad one. The kind of thing he’d find on someone’s Instagram with the hashtag ‘fitspo’ beside it. He unlocked his phone to impart that observation onto Frank but when he came face-to-face with his messenger app, all he ended up typing was ‘i’m hungry’.

“Okay.” Frank leaned down and kissed his forehead.

Billy felt like a cornered animal. He wanted to bare his teeth. He wanted to show his belly. Torn between the two, he ended up doing nothing, keeping still like Frank was a predator with movement-based vision.

“I’ll fix you something nice. Do you think scrambled eggs’d be soft enough for your throat? I guess you can’t have bacon or toast.” Frank grabbed the first pair of shorts he could find and slipped them on. “Hard to manage a properly balanced breakfast when you’re on a soft food diet. I could make you a smoothie. I got plenty of protein powder and that green stuff vegans put in their smoothies to stop their bones from turning to dust or whatever.”

Frank’s voice was almost a comfort, a blanket of sound that sank into the air between them. Billy wasn’t a fan of silence. It occurred to him that Frank wasn’t normally this chatty. He thought about these two facts, tried to find the connective tissue between them, but he felt like he was missing something, a key piece of evidence that would bring the whole case together. He looked at his phone, like he might’ve written the answer without noticing.

Frank stretched like he was trying to touch the ceiling, right up on his tippy toes. He hadn’t put on a shirt yet, which was considerate of him. Even if it did mean Billy had to look at his ugly tattoos.

“We’re gonna have to clean your wounds and replace those bandages,” Frank said.

The word ‘we’ coming out of Frank’s mouth felt like a trap with its jaws pulled back. Those same animal responses went off in Billy’s head, fight or flight except there was a third option and that felt like the worst and most tempting.

 “I’ll put the stuff out for you in the bathroom,” Frank said, brushing his fingers through Billy’s hair. “You can text me if you need help. Did you decide what you wanted for breakfast? I could get you oatmeal too, if you’re interested.”

Billy opted for a smoothie and oatmeal. He went into Frank’s bathroom, leaving the door open behind him at Frank’s insistence, and cleaned his injuries. He washed his hair in the sink because he hated how limp and greasy it was starting to get. It made him feel better to do it. Feel like less of a hospital patient, more in control.

Frank left a duffel bag unzipped on the bed and when Billy went rooting around inside, he found that some thoughtful angel had gone and brought him his clothes and, more importantly, his toiletries.

He cleansed and moisturized his face, patted Kiehl’s cream into the bags under his eyes, trimmed and oiled his beard. He met his reflection’s eyes as he worked and it came as a shock each time. This wasn’t the first time he found himself in bad shape, but it made him feel uneasy all the same. To see his beautiful face all bashed up, bruises like amateur watercolours on his cheeks, red bursting under the skin around the curl of his brow. When Billy tipped his chin up to work at the stubble on his throat, he caught sight of the bruises that wrapped around his neck, blue and purple, black and red, lurid as a leer and uglier than he’d previously thought. He lowered his hands, bowed his head, and gripped the edge of the bathroom sink until the ceramic grew warm under his palms.

Frank had mentioned a scar, hadn’t he? On his abdomen. He’d probably have one on his leg, too. People were always leaving their marks on him.

Billy brought his hand up to his neck, dragged his fingers over the colourful skin. At least the son of a bitch who’d done this wouldn’t ever touch him again. Billy tried to find victory, comfort, in that knowledge.

Billy re-emerged from Frank’s little bathroom looking and feeling a little more like himself. He went through his clothes to find something respectable to wear. He was tired of looking like a trauma patient. He found a pair of jogging shorts and a cotton t-shirt.

The ache in his leg had become an insistent throb, repetitive as the chorus in a pop song and twice as irritating. He could feel the sting of tugged stitches with each step he took. When he pulled on his t-shirt, he felt it in his side too. Billy clenched his jaw, breathed out hard through his nose, and waited for the anger to loosen its grip.

By the time he was finished, Frank was nowhere to be found. There was a bowl of oatmeal and a pink smoothie on the table, but there was no sign of the guy who’d made it. Or his dog, for that matter.

Billy stood behind one of the chairs, gripping the curved back with both hands, heart pounding in his throat. So soon? He thought. But no, it couldn’t have been the trouble he’d been courting. He would’ve heard something if there had been a struggle. Frank didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d get taken quietly. Billy had to stay calm.

Just as he reached for his phone, he heard a voice call his name.

Frank sat on the edge of a wooden patio, just under the awning’s protection while rain tapped against the wood and aluminium. Lola nosed around the damp yard, her ears drooping, tail low and still. The sky shone grey-white through the green trees, blank and flat as a quarter, the clouds above so thick as to be completely featureless.

“You sure take your time,” Frank said without rancour. He looked Billy over, a single sweep of his gaze. “You look good.”

Billy would’ve said something to that if he could. He’d seen his reflection.

Maybe his expression said enough. Frank’s eyes went soft. “You look better,” he amended.

Oddly, Billy couldn’t think of what he would say to that. He should’ve turned around and gone back inside where it was drier and a little cooler, gotten himself started on breakfast and painkillers, but instead he sat down on the edge of the porch, beside Frank, wincing at the fresh pain, like a nudge from his wounds to remind him that they were still there.

Frank touched him as soon as he was in reach, putting his hand onto Billy’s thigh. “You found your clothes, huh? Hope you liked what they brought you. I can ask them to bring more when they get the chance, but it might be a while. Even if your place isn’t being watched, we don’t want attract too much attention from your neighbours.

 “It’s gonna be a miserable day today. Probably gonna rain ‘til tomorrow,” Frank said, watching Lola as she made another slow circuit through the yard.

Tension bled from Billy at the comforting rumble of Frank’s voice, at the feeling of his hand, firm but not restrictive, on his leg.

“Look at her. That dog could chew the throat from an elk but if you put her out in the wet, all she does is mope around. She goes out into the rain just to make sure I know how unhappy it makes her and then she just stays out there like I’m trying to punish her. She’s gonna be insufferable all day.”

Lola’s head perked up. She fixed them both with an accusatory look, like the rain was something they’d brought out to spite her.

Frank’s hand was a warm and gentle pressure on Billy’s thigh. Billy knew he could pull it up a few inches it to turn things from companionable to _very_ companionable. He knew it wouldn’t take much to lure Frank back inside, back into the bedroom. He looked down at his thigh and tried to figure out why he wasn’t doing just that.

He didn’t want to, he realised. Not right now.

“Yeah, I’m talking about you,” Frank said. She whined at him. “Big baby,” he grumbled, rubbing Billy’s thigh.

Maybe he was too sore, even though Frank had been slow and sickeningly gentle last night.

“I got a slow cooker for Christmas a few years ago,” Frank said. “And I bought some chicken, potatoes, celery and carrots. I was thinking I might make a real soup for us today. I got a recipe from my ma—kind of. She didn’t give it to me, exactly, but I’d seen her make it often enough. Usually when I was sick. Nothin’ beats chicken soup when you’re sick, especially when the weather’s shitty. The secret is to put an entire head of garlic into the pot.”

Billy shifted where he sat, stretched his legs out until he could feel the rain against his calves. He thought about Mrs. Castle, that idyllic scene in a Norman Rockwell kitchen. The woman in a dress and apron, little Frank at her legs, just tall enough to peek over the counter. The image of what Frank must’ve looked like—curly hair, big ears, big lips, big nose and a gap-toothed smile, already looking like a miniature pugilist—made Billy smile.

 “C’mon.” Frank pecked him behind his ear and stood up with a sigh and a creak of wood. “You need to eat and I need to get started on this soup.” He held his hand out and Billy took it without thinking. He swayed on his feet, leaning on Frank as they started walking, just to see what Frank would do.

Frank supported him, of course. Billy really hadn’t expected anything else.

* * *

It rained all day, as Frank predicted it would. Billy spent most of it on the couch, stoned on Frank’s weed and watching a stream of documentaries until he felt as if his brains were leaking out of his ears. They tried to watch some programming that didn’t air on Animal Planet, but most of it was stupid. Frank enjoyed crime procedurals.

Billy squinted at Frank’s shelf, as if that would grant him better long-distance vision, his phone held loosely in one hand.

‘is that csi on dvd?’ he typed.

“Yeah,” Frank said as he flipped from the History Channel to Comedy Network, fingers winding through Billy’s hair. “Seasons 1 through 10.”

‘Jesus Christ there’s 10 seasons of csi?’ Billy typed, lifting his head from Frank’s lap.

“There’s like twenty-two seasons, I think,” Frank said. “Laurence Fishburne is the guy now. He was in the Matrix,” he added at Billy’s blank look.

‘keanu reeves?’

“No, no, Keanu Reeves is Keanu Reeves. Laurence Fishburne was, uh. The Obi-Wan guy. The mentor. I think he died in the first one,” Frank said.

Billy laid back down. ‘i dont know those movies,’ he typed.

“You wanna watch ‘em?” Frank asked.

Billy didn’t want to do anything that would make Frank move Billy from his lap. He curled up, burrowing like an animal preparing a nest for hibernation.

“Or I could put something on Netflix,” Frank said. He sounded like he was smiling. Billy didn’t look up to check.

The apartment filled with the scent of slow-cooking chicken and fresh rain. Frank kept the back door open to let Lola in and out as she pleased, which wasn’t often. She spent her day lying down on the patio, watching the rain with a tragic expression. Now and then she would wander back inside to give Frank a reproachful and hurt look.

“It’s not me,” Frank would say every time. “I don’t control the weather.”

‘why do you keep talking to your dog? you know she doesn’t speak English, right?’ Billy typed.

“Maybe not, but she understands the sentiment,” Frank said. “Anyway,” he went on as Billy scoffed. “She likes the sound of my voice. Just like someone else I could name.” He dragged his fingers through Billy’s smooth hair.

‘whos that,’ Billy typed.

“Please,” Frank murmured, his fingers a gentle pressure on Billy’s scalp. Billy stretched into it, shameless as a cat. “Who do you think you’re kidding?”

Billy lightly flicked the underside of his chin. Frank flinched away, laughing.

At the sound of Billy’s wheezing chuckle, Lola turned her big brown eyes onto him. Billy stared back, too tired to lift his head from where he lay on Frank.

“She likes you,” Frank said quietly.

Billy furrowed his brow, thumbing the screen of his phone. ‘how can you even tell?’

“I know my dog. She made eye contact with you and didn’t run away or start growling. That’s a good sign,” Frank said.

Billy lifted his head, the humour gone from his face. He fixed Frank with a severe, narrow-eyed look. Frank stared back with a smile.

“She likes you,” he repeated.

Billy huffed and braced his elbow on Frank’s thigh to type. ‘growling?????’ He pressed send quickly and began typing another message immediately, fingers pressing into the screen while Frank shifted under the pin of his elbow. ‘growling from a dog that bit you so hard she nearly caused permanent damage????’

“She hasn’t bitten anyone else since,” Frank said, petting Billy’s hair back from his face. “She’s a good girl.”

Lola’s ears perked up and her tail thumped the floor, just once. Billy sank reluctantly back down.

“Although,” Frank said thoughtfully. “You are kind of in her usual spot. She might start feelin’ like you’re tryin’ to move in on her territory.”

Billy grumbled, the sound whispering from his tight throat. Frank hushed him.

“I’m just sayin’, she’s been my number one for a long time. She might’ve gotten used to the preferential treatment,” Frank said, touching his index finger to Billy’s lower lip.

 ‘if she wants the spot back, she can have it,’ Billy typed, although he made no effort to move.

“She’s got her bed. You’ve got it good here,” Frank said, running his fingers back through Billy’s hair.

Frank fed him chicken soup spiked with red pepper flakes for a late lunch. He doused his own bowl with sriracha.

‘of course you’re that guy,’ Billy typed slowly with his off-hand while he ate with the other.

“Which guy?” Frank asked, cheek bulging with a mouthful.

‘the sriacha guy,’ Billy said. ‘i bet you have it with every meal.’

“You missed an ‘r’.”

‘who cares.’

“Sriracha’s good stuff,” Frank said, a shade defensively.

‘i bet you have a collection of hot sauces,’ Billy typed.

“I get them as gifts,” Frank said. Definitely sounding defensive now.

Billy put his spoon down and held his phone with both hands, his lips twitching with a smile. ‘novelty ones,’ he went on. ‘the kinds with skulls and crossbones. just like your dumb tattoos.’

“You know, you’re pretty judgemental of a guy who came all the way out to the suburbs to rescue you,” Frank said. Billy scoffed. “Got you fixed up, took you in,” Frank went on. “Fed you good food, clothed you, gave you an incredible dicking…”

Billy’s laugh shook his chest, wheezing as a near-silent exhale from his mouth.

“And don’t pretend like you don’t love my tattoos,” Frank said, his eyes gleaming.

The L-word fell so casually from Frank’s lips that Billy almost missed it. It landed in his chest like Cupid’s arrow, trembling there between one breath and the next, before Billy could absorb the feeling. He sniffed and picked up his phone once more.

‘they’re dumb and so are you,’ Billy typed. Frank caught his hand before he could press send, his other hand sliding around the back of Billy’s neck, pulling him close.

Billy had no resistance against Frank. Not anymore. He went, easy as anything.

They fucked again that night, slow and gentle. Frank put Billy on his stomach, put a pillow under his hips and fucked him with long, slow drags of his cock, until Billy felt reduced, the sharp edges of every anxious thought melting under the burn of pleasure. Frank murmured soothing, encouraging words, lips hot on Billy’s neck, one hand sliding around Billy’s chest, planted against his ribs. Over his galloping heart.

Billy lifted his hips, arched his back, let Frank in deeper, and wondered if it could always be like this. If Frank would always be this good to him, the way nobody ever was. Billy closed his eyes and buried his face into the pillow.

* * *

Day three was just as grey as the one before it. The storm-front that’d moved in lingered with malignant intent, drizzling bad news every few hours. Billy watched the clouds move from what was now probably ‘his’ spot on the couch, staring out the big picture window stationed behind the television, while images of the bleached and dying coral reef played out on the screen. He could hear Frank working out on the floor. Simple reps—push-ups, sit-ups, curls, and finished off with yoga.

Billy watched him now and then, because the flex and pull of Frank’s muscles were more interesting than the TV. He typed a message he knew Frank wouldn’t see until he was finished.

‘i cant believe you know yoga,’ it read.

“I hope this isn’t you bein’ judgemental again,” Frank said as he wiped his forehead and neck down. “There’s nothing wrong with being a little flexible,” he added with a wink.

Billy hid his smile behind his forearm.

‘youre embarrassing,’ he typed.

“Maybe,” Frank said. He leaned down and kissed Billy’s crown. “How’re you feelin’ today?”

Billy lifted his hand and made the ‘so-so’ motion.

“It’ll get easier soon,” Frank said, as if he were the expert. He must’ve read the scepticism in Billy’s expression, because he went on: “Hey, I used to get the shit kicked outta me as part of my job, remember? I know a thing or two about injuries.”

‘were you that bad at mma fighting?’ Billy asked.

“I wasn’t bad,” Frank said defensively. “I was pretty good, actually. But you don’t fight without getting hurt. You oughta know that much.” He drew his thumb down the side of Billy’s face.

Billy leaned into the warmth of Frank’s hand as he continued typing.

‘were you ever ko’d?’

“I been knocked on my ass a couple times, yeah,” Frank said. “But a full knockout? That’s only ever happened to me outside of the ring. You should know. You were there the last time.”

Billy furrowed his brow. Frank smiled and traced his finger down the straight slope of Billy’s nose.

“First time I looked at you, gorgeous.”

Billy made a production of rolling his eyes as he slid back down onto Frank’s couch. He hid his face in the pillow while Frank laughed.

“What can I say?” Frank’s voice grew distant as he walked to the kitchen. “You’re a knockout. Hey, what are you thinking for breakfast? I’m thinkin’ eggs, you want eggs?”

‘i want to stab you.’

“I’ll make you some eggs,” Frank said.

Frank wasn’t a terrible cook, Billy had to admit. His scrambled eggs were soft without being runny, moist without seeming under-cooked. Billy added ketchup, much to Frank’s disgust.

‘i’m not taking that look from a guy who just drowned his eggs in sriracha,’ Billy typed, fingers smearing grease across his screen.

“Sriracha is good,” Frank said. “Ketchup is just red sugar paste. Why don’t I just get you a bottle of honey next time and you can put that on your eggs instead.”

Billy pushed out a hard breath, a silent laugh. ‘bite me.’

Frank leered. “Ask nice.”

There was something strangely primal about this display, and it wasn’t just the teeth Frank showed off. The cooking thing, the looking after Billy while he recovered from his injuries thing, providing him with shelter, safety. Almost like showing off. Maybe Billy had spent too much time watching nature documentaries these last few days, but it made him think about the things some birds would do to entice their chosen mates. He wondered if Frank would sing him a song if he asked.

Probably. He considered his situation while he folded another pile of eggs over a slice of toast.

(Frank had been reluctant about the toast but Billy assured him that his throat was a little better and anyway, it was just a matter of chewing.)

By early afternoon, Billy was feeling restless. Frank must’ve been able to tell, because he invited Billy to join him and Lola for their walk.

“We’ll take it slow,” he said while he clipped Lola’s leash onto her spiked collar.

Billy was so bored of looking at the inside of Frank’s apartment that he actually agreed.

“Okay.” Frank straightened and aimed a frown at Billy, gaze dipping to his neck and chest. “We might have to put you in a jacket or something. Maybe a scarf. Not really sure how we could explain your whole…” He brushed his fingers lightly over the still-livid bruises on Billy’s throat.

It was over 90 degrees outside but Billy knew Frank had a point. He couldn’t walk down the street looking like he’d survived a murder attempt without raising questions.

They couldn’t find a scarf, but Frank found him a hoodie with the sleeves cut off. He zipped it up to Billy’s chin—possibly the first time Frank had ever zipped anything completely closed in his life—and told him to keep the hood up.

“It won’t hide it if people look too close. Hopefully they won’t.” He flicked the string. “Although…” He rocked forward, slipped his hand inside the hood to cup Billy’s chin. “If they catch sight of this mug of yours, they’ll have a hard time looking away.”

Billy blew out a breath and rolled his eyes. He folded his arms over his chest, a weak and easily dismantled barrier. 

“Don’t give me that look, you know it’s true,” Frank said. He traced his fingers across Billy’s cheek. “Maybe I should get you a mask.”

Billy shook his head, reached into his pocket for his phone, but Frank closed the distance between them, hand gentle on Billy’s jaw.

It was another five minutes before they left the house. Clouds hung like a shroud across the sky, pinned on the horizon by the black spires of the city’s skyline. The gloom felt complete, the blank sky at the end of the world, that Billy could imagine the grey was smoke rising from a pyre of destruction.

And then Frank caught his hand and gave him a tug down the street.

“C’mon,” he said while Lola whined impatiently beside him. “We got a lot of ground to cover. Lola’s got her whole beat to investigate.”

Billy clicked his tongue and followed Frank. He didn’t try to shake his hand free.

The trip around the neighbourhood took longer than Billy expected. Lola made frequent stops to sniff at a tree or the corner of a fence, squatting to pee almost every time.

After the fifteenth or so time, Billy shot Frank a look, his eyebrow raised in question.

“Haven’t you ever had a dog?” Frank asked, returning Billy’s look with his own furrowed brow. Billy shook his head. “This is just what they do. It’s like buying the newspaper at the corner. Or checking twitter, I guess. Shame you never had a dog before,” he went on as Lola trotted ahead and they started moving once more. “They’re good companions. Full of personality, like people. Or like kids, I guess. Only they never grow up to disappoint you.”

Billy fished for his phone in the pocket of Frank’s massive hoodie with his free hand.

“You’re gonna make me pick up my phone? I got my hands full.” Frank lifted them in demonstration, Lola’s leash in his left and Billy’s hand in his right. “Don’t try to make me pick which one of you to drop, ‘cause I won’t do it.”

Billy sighed and stuck his phone under Frank’s nose.

‘i don’t really like dogs.’

Frank’s expression grew grave. He slid his gaze to Billy’s face, his lips pulled into a tight frown. “Why not?” he asked.

It took Billy a while to type his response one-handed. They passed through another block of identical-looking houses. There were still browned and blackened remains of dead flower petals littering the pavement, floating in the stagnant puddles left-over from yesterday’s deluge. Lola paused to sniff at a concrete birdbath set up in someone’s yard.

‘people are kinder & more likely to adopt a fucking rescue pitbull that bit their arm off than take home a 5 y.o. kid in the system.’

The tight lines around Frank’s eyes and mouth relaxed. He gave Billy the same look he’d given him the other night, when Billy asked him why he would ever want to take Lola home in the first place.

“That’s not the dog’s fault,” he said gently.

Billy huffed at his phone as he typed. He tried to pull his thoughts in order but written communication had never been his favourite, and trying to compose a text to properly convey everything he wanted to say on the subject—how pissed off it made him to see a dog in a stroller, to see people spend thousands on dog grooming, dog toys, vet visits, kennels, spas, therapy treatments, whatever—was a struggle. Especially on a medium not meant for anything more complicated than ‘u up?’ and all that followed after.

‘dogs get more sympathy & get treated better than foster kids. end of.’

Frank read it in silence. Lola nosed at a puddle. Frank tugged her leash, gently pulling her away before she could start drinking. They set off again and Frank still wasn’t speaking. Billy couldn’t tell what he was thinking by the look on his face, and he decided he didn’t want to waste energy trying to figure it out.

“I’m sorry you went through… whatever it was you went through when you were growing up,” Frank said.

Billy made a dismissive sound.

When Frank spoke again, he did so slowly, as if weighing each word on his tongue before speaking. “What I was saying to you before. About you taking Lola’s spot, being the new number one… I hope you don’t think I was trying to imply that you were.” He paused. “We’ve only been datin’ for a little while but you—.”

A small flinch shivered through Billy at that, his heart pounding in the aftermath.

 _Dating_? He glanced at Frank. Since when were they dating? Since when was one date the same as _dating_? He fumbled with his phone while Frank spoke.

“You and she aren’t the same to me. I love her, but you’re not.” Frank broke off again, brows crinkling with apparent frustration. “You’re worth more than a dog,” he said finally.

Billy’s thumb slowed its progress over his screen. The half-written message blinked up at him but all the words that’d been seething in Billy’s head about Frank’s assertion that they were _dating_ fell apart and went silent. He deleted the message and typed a new one.

‘gee thanks.’

Frank’s head snapped up. His look of concern melted when he caught sight of the half-smile Billy wore.

“You’re welcome. Now, don’t go spreadin’ it around,” Frank said, pulling him close until their shoulders knocked together. “I got a reputation to maintain. People can’t know how soft I’m gettin’.”

‘everyone knows ur a fuckin sap,’ Billy typed.

“Only if they’ve seen me lookin’ at you, beautiful,” Frank said.

Billy looked away, hiding his mouth behind his phone before Frank could see his smile.

The people at the dog park seemed nice. They waved at Frank, made polite conversation about their dogs while Lola bounded after her friends. She was popular, Frank informed Billy with obvious pride.

A few people gave Billy curious looks. He lurked in the shadow of Frank’s hoodie, feeling like a celebrity trying to dodge media attention at an airport. A few people gathered in a loose knot and tried to introduce themselves, but Frank cut in before it could get awkward.

“He had an accident,” he said. “Lost his voice.”

That earned Billy coos of sympathy and offers to bring over a tray of cupcakes, a pie, a casserole, or anything he might like.

The smile faded from Frank’s face. “His throat’s hurt. He can’t eat that kinda stuff right now,” he said, a touch of frost curling around his words.

The ringleader—a woman in multi-coloured jogging pants and a crop-top—ignored Frank and gave Billy a wide smile.

“Well, you just let me know if you need anything at all,” she said and gave him a quick wink.

Frank’s reclaimed his grip on Billy’s hand. “We’re doin’ good, but thanks,” he said.

Billy wheezed a laugh as the welcome wagon dispersed. ‘jealous???’

“I’ve lived on this street for like six years. I’ve seen these people at least once a week. They’ve seen me in casts and in bandages, but not once have I ever gotten an offer for a casserole. See, what did I tell you?” Frank muttered as Lola trotted over to them. “One look at your mug and they’re all over you. I hope no one saw the bruises on your neck.”

Billy hummed, the sound weak but at least it was audible. That felt like progress.

Frank frowned at the backs of the other dog people as he clipped Lola’s leash onto her collar. “What if they think I did it to you?”

Billy shrugged. He didn’t make it a habit of caring about what other people thought.

Frank didn’t turn away from the group. He patted Lola’s head absently. “I shouldn’t have gotten territorial. Make myself look like a jealous jackass…”

Billy tapped him on the top of his head. Frank looked up into the glowing screen of Billy’s phone.

‘who cares i’m hungry.’

Frank laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Alright.” He stood up with a sigh. “Let’s go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been such a touching amount of feedback after the last chapter and I'm so sorry I haven't responded to any comments. The reasons for it aren't very good (I'm tired all the time, executive dysfunction maybe?? and I'm also working on something new which is taking up a lot of spare time+energy) but they're valid maybe.
> 
> Find me sleepily reblogging over on tumblr: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy struggles like he's trapped, unwilling to acknowledge that he doesn't want to go anywhere. And then he has no choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jun beta'd this monster of a chapter and gave me some very useful advice. thank u jun/ssealdog.
> 
> lelelego drew some really gay art for the scumbag au. [check it out over here!! they're holding hands!!!](http://lelelego.tumblr.com/post/178385078202/theyre-holding-hands-and-theyre-gay-and-in-love)
> 
> unfortunately, this chapter features some domestic violence.

By day four Billy had stopped experiencing a momentary surge of confusion and panic upon waking in Frank’s bed. He arrived at semi-consciousness just as the sky began to lighten from navy blue into steel grey, golden light leaking from the horizon. He yawned, closed his eyes, and shifted carefully onto his undamaged side.

Frank sighed behind him. Billy heard the rustle of sheets and felt an utter lack of surprise when an arm curled around his waist and a furnace pressed against his back. Frank was so goddamn clingy.

Billy fell back to sleep.

It took almost a full week before Billy’s voice came back, and even then it sounded rough. Curtis came by for a house call at the end of the week, to check on the progress of Billy’s wounds.

“Lookin’ good,” he said of the puckered, bloodless line on Billy’s stomach, held together by a neat row of stitches. Curtis crouched in front of the kitchen table where they’d set Billy up for an examination. Billy’d taken his shirt off and rolled his sweat pants up to his knees.

Curtis was professional and calm but he talked to Billy like they’d been friends for years. No stiffness, no formality. In someone else, it might’ve felt manufactured, but it worked on Curtis. Billy decided he liked him. If they’d met under different circumstances, he might’ve tried to sleep with him.

 That didn’t mean he couldn’t flirt. He smiled. “I get that a lot,” he said.

Curtis laughed, his eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I bet you do.”

Frank set down a mug of coffee at Curtis’ elbow, turned carefully so that the handle faced the right way. Curtis cleared his throat, put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up.

“Another week and they can come out,” he said, picking up his mug. “Contusions on the neck are lookin’ better, too. If you’re worried about your voice, though, you’re gonna need to see a proper doctor.”

“You are a proper doctor,” Frank said.

“I mean one with the paper on their wall and the hundreds and thousands of dollars in student debt,” Curtis said. He turned to Billy. “I can give you some names, if you want ‘em.”

“Nah,” Billy said. He accepted a mug from Frank—the same one he’d been using since he arrived—and blew away a tendril of steam. “It’s comin’ back on its own.” He smiled over the rim, a brilliant flash of teeth. “Of course, if you’re feelin’ like you need to come by for a more thorough examination…”

Curtis’ gaze cut to where Frank stood at the kitchen island, hip braced, both hands locked around his mug (chipped, with a low-quality picture of Lola printed on the front).

“Maybe some other time,” Curtis said.

* * *

They had a rhythm now. Billy would wake up a little after dawn, as usual, and then fall back asleep. Usually with Frank’s arm around him. Frank would wake up around 11am, which would startle Billy awake a second time. Frank would kiss him, tell him to go back to sleep, and then rise to fix their breakfast. Billy would ignore him, retreat to the bathroom to clean his wounds and replace his bandages, and groom himself back into a decent shape. By the end of the first week, Billy felt confident enough to try and shower. Partially because the stitches were healing well, but mostly because he had started to smell of sex and Frank’s cologne.

At least it wasn’t terrible cologne, Billy thought as he stepped under the spray, careful to keep his injuries from the direct water. Someone must’ve finally told Frank that Old Spice was for teenagers who were too classy for Axe. Frank’s body wash, unfortunately, was generic iceberg labelled nonsense.

An entire week spent as a guest in Frank’s home. Billy had a mug, and a plate. Frank’s little bathroom had been completely colonized. Billy’s waterpik sat charging on the crowded counter beside the sink, along with bottles of face cream, toner, tinted moisturizers, hair wax, hair gel, colognes and his electric clippers. His shampoo, conditioner, face wash and body wash had pushed out the large plastic bottles of Frank’s drug store stuff.

Billy kept bringing in new things—loofa sponge, brow tweezers, a tub of eye cream, clay mask, cotton face cloth—waiting for Frank to snap. To make even a single snide comment about the amount of time Billy spent looking after himself, his skin, his face, his hair. Time spent making himself _pretty_. He waited for it.

But Frank never said anything. Neither did he object when Billy stored his sunglasses on the top of Frank’s dresser, beside Frank’s collection of rings and watches, nor when Billy started keeping his folded t-shirts, jeans and shorts in the corner of the middle drawer, each item like an unspoken dare that Frank refused to take him up on.

Frank actually moved his clothes to a different drawer, made more space for Billy. When Billy took out Frank’s iron and ironing board and started pressing his shirts right there in the kitchen, Frank paused only to place a kiss behind Billy’s ear and cop a feel of his ass.

That morning, Frank made him eggs and pancakes and a strawberry banana smoothie. Billy asked him if he was trying to fatten him up.

Frank shrugged. “You can always come to the gym with me if you’re worried about your figure.”

Billy scoffed. “I never worry about my figure,” he informed Frank, his voice rasping through his sore throat. “You thinkin’ about headin’ back to work today?” His thumb left sticky smears of syrup behind on his phone’s screen as he turned to the next page.

“You shouldn’t be talkin’ too much,” Frank reminded him.

“Your cute doctor pal said I was fine,” Billy said without looking away from his screen.

Frank huffed. “He said your larynx was still tender. Don’t over-stress it.”

“Don’t nag me,” Billy snapped.

Frank didn’t reply immediately. Billy stared at his screen, eyes scanning the same line of text over and over. He waited, wondering if Frank might finally say something.

“Yeah, I was thinking about goin’ back to work today,” Frank said as he punctured the over-easy egg yolk with his fork. “Gleason is a pain in the ass but this job is alright.”

“A day job.” Billy’s upper lip curled. “What, does your buddy Micro not pay you enough?”

“He pays me just fine. I don’t need Gleason’s money, it’s just nice to have somethin’ to do. If I don’t go back soon, he might… well, I don’t think he’d fire me, but he’d probably make a big deal of cutting my hours. I don’t need the hassle.”

Billy made a quiet noise of agreement, relaxing. Part of him felt relieved, but he couldn’t shake the tension that’d been building in him over the last week. Eventually, Frank would say something. He would have to. 

Frank lifted his gaze to Billy. His chewing slowed. “You goin’ to be okay on your own for a while?” he asked.

Billy tabbed over to his messenger app. He sipped his coffee with one hand while he typed with the other.

‘no one’s tried to kill me yet.’

Frank’s gaze softened, a smile tugging at his lips. “Not since the first attempt,” he said. He didn’t look reassured.

‘you shouldn’t worry about me so much.’

“How do you figure that?” Frank asked before taking a bite of pancake.

Billy leaned back and stretched his arms out, gesturing down at himself. He was here, bruised and battered, but still alive, while the other guy rotted at the bottom of the harbour, or wherever Frank’s people had dumped him.

“Tough guy, huh.” Frank nudged his foot against Billy’s uninjured calf. Billy sniffed.

Frank still worried. He asked Billy to keep his knife and phone on him at all times, and to wear his hoodie if he went outside.

“I can get a sitter for Lola,” Frank said casually. “If you don’t want to keep her, I mean.”

Lola raised her head from her pillow at the sound of her name. Billy glanced over, licking crumbs from his butter knife. She looked back. Her tail thumped once.

“For what it’s worth,” Frank said as he pushed his chair back and gathered their plates. “She really does like you.”

‘i guess i kind of owe you,’ Billy typed.

“I’m not keeping score,” Frank said as the dishwasher opened. “But if you’re feeling generous, yeah, it would help me out if you took care of her while I was gone. If you were feelin’ real generous, you could maybe empty the dishwasher when it’s done and do a load of laundry.”

Billy sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘am i your maid now?

Frank circled behind him, put his hands on Billy’s shoulders. “If I said yes, would you wear the outfit?”

Billy rolled his eyes. He tipped his head back, giving Frank the access he knew he was waiting for. Frank took the invitation and kissed the taste of syrup from his lips.

A door slammed on the second floor, the sound like a gunshot. Billy and Frank broke apart at the sound of footsteps crashing down the stairs and out to the front hall, past Frank’s front door. Frank sighed.

“That’ll be my first appointment for the day,” he said. Billy tracked the shadow of a person walk down the front porch cobblestone path of the front yard. “Not sure when that guy ever actually works. My neighbour,” he added at Billy’s blank look. “Also a client of mine. Weird guy.”

Frank left him with written instructions for his dog and a lingering kiss goodbye. Billy indulged both (one more enthusiastically than the other) and tried not to think too hard about how domestic it all felt.

Billy spent the first hour lounging, reading his book on his phone. Lola stayed in her kennel, emerging only to drink and sniff hopefully at her empty food bowl. She gave Billy a shot of her big brown eyes, the skin around her brows pulling in. It was a human looking expression on a very inhuman face. Billy never understood why anyone found these animals appealing.

He shrugged at her and returned to his novel. His list of instructions had included a very specific feeding schedule.

He did a load of laundry and put away the dishes. He fed Lola at 1pm on the dot—she was already waiting by her bowl when he approached with the carefully measured cup of limited-ingredient, all protein food—and read another three chapters before he took her out for a walk.

Billy wore the hoodie with one of Frank’s sunglasses (a ridiculous pair with bright red frames) and a baseball cap pulled low. Frank’s hoodie smelled like him, like gun oil and sweat, and the faint, sharp tang of deodorant. It smelled a bit like his bed and a bit like his couch, and a bit like his entire apartment and Billy didn’t realise that he had started ducking his head just to catch a hint of it until he nearly barrelled into a woman with a stroller going the opposite way.

It was strange. It was maybe stupid, too. When Lola paused to sniff a newspaper box, Billy pinched the collar between his fingers and brought the fabric to his nose and inhaled. Definitely stupid, he decided. Lola stared up at him, her tail wagging and tongue lolling. He felt a stab of guilt, like he’d been caught.

Billy reached down and scratched behind her ears. Her flailing tail smacked him in the back of his leg.

There was an unfamiliar car parked on the sidewalk outside of Frank’s home. A black two-door, European-looking car with out-of-state plates. It was difficult to see from this distance, and through the tinted windshield, whether or not there was someone in the front seat. Billy wasn’t close enough to read the plates but he could see that they were yellow. New York City.

Adrenaline flooded his system in a wave of ice. He ducked back around the corner, Lola offering only a token resistance before she followed him. He pulled out his phone.

‘strange car outside of ur home w nyc plates.’ He hit send.

Frank’s reply trembled in his hand a moment later.

‘r u in the apt?’

Billy typed that he was not, that he was currently crouched behind one of his neighbour’s trees, out of sight.

‘lola w u?’

Billy gave the affirmative.

His phone buzzed in his hand with an incoming call a second after he hit send.

“Good. Keep her with you,” Frank said. “There’s a place called Ned’s Café on the main road. It’s dog-friendly and they know Lola. Duck in there and stay put until I come and get you.”

 

Ned’s Café was small and unhip. The menu was tiny, the counter space mostly taken up by a consumer-grade espresso machine and a line of Ily-brand coffee cans. A twenty-something sat on a spindly chair, wedged between a bar fridge and a stack of boxes, behind a cash register. Billy left Lola tied beside a water bowl and went inside.

The barista looked up as the bell above the door jingled. She tipped in her stool to get a look out of the front window, catching sight of where Lola sat in the shade. She shifted her gaze back to Billy’s face, to the bruises partially hidden by the shadow of his—Frank’s—hoodie and glasses, and narrowed her eyes.

Billy placed an order for coffee by pointing at the menu and holding up his phone to inform her that he could not speak, having already decided this interaction wasn’t worth straining his voice. She slid off the chair with a put-upon sigh, like making coffee was the last thing she expected to do today.

“That’s Lola outside, isn’t it?” she asked as she pulled the carafe from the machine.

There were two other people in the little café, both of them plugged into their laptops. They looked as if they’d been there a while. Neither of them looked like the types who could afford to drive a nice European car.

Billy just tapped his screen, pointing to his earlier message.

The twenty-something scowled at him. “You know Frank?” she asked.

Billy’s nostrils flared with a sigh. He braced one arm on the counter, pulled his—Frank’s—sunglasses down and leaned in close. He waited until she was watching him and then he stuck his phone an inch from her face.

Her lips twisted. “You’re an asshole,” she said and slammed his coffee down between them, hard enough to slosh over the rim of his paper cup.

No one looked up. Billy licked his lips, pushed his sunglasses up, threw down two bucks (no tip), collected his coffee and retreated to the table furthest from the counter. He took a seat facing the door, stretched his legs out in front of him, and waited.

Frank arrived a little over a quarter of an hour later.

“Car’s gone,” he said as Billy pushed himself to his feet. “I went up and down the street and couldn’t find it. Did you see the plate number?”

Billy pinched his lips together and shook his head. Frank sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ve got some external security cameras. Maybe they caught something,” he said. He cupped his hand around the side of Billy’s neck and pulled him close.

“You okay?” Frank asked, sweeping his thumb over the line of Billy’s jaw.

Billy huffed and nodded.

The barista leaned her torso over the counter. “Frank, you know this guy?”

Frank dropped his hand and turned, wearing a frown on his face. “Yeah, of course. He’s a—buddy of mine.”

Billy cut a side-ways glance at Frank’s hesitation. Something twinged in his chest at the label ‘buddy’.

“He’s an asshole,” the barista said.

‘she’s a nosy bitch,’ Billy typed.

“I think it’s time to go,” Frank said, taking Billy’s arm.

Lola sat upright as soon as they emerged outside, practically bouncing on her front paws. It was an embarrassing display—dogs were always so goddamn eager and stupid about their person. And then Billy recalled how he’d jumped to his feet as soon as he spotted Frank approaching through the glass. Lola met his gaze, which was—

Ridiculous because she was a dog and thinking there was anything remotely knowing in the eyes of a dog was a step towards straight-jackets and padded walls.

“What are you makin’ a face for?” Frank asked. Billy flushed. He jerked his head towards the café behind them. “Oh, that’s just Stef. Don’t mind her.” He slipped his hand around Billy’s, so casual like they’ve been doing it for years.

Billy swallowed, his fingers twitching. Lola trotted at Frank’s side, panting lightly.

* * *

Frank checked the security footage from his phone. He scrolled through the last few hours in a matter of minutes, his eyebrows drawing together as he scrutinized the screen.

“I think I’ve got an angle,” he said after ten minutes. “Only for a second, when the car pulled out. He’s parked just in the corner of the feed, so it’s hard…” He sighed quietly. “I can’t see if anyone got in or out. If they did, they weren’t coming from my front door.”

Billy let his head fall back onto the arm of the couch. He stared up at the ceiling while Frank worked.

New York plates didn’t necessarily mean anything. People made road trips all the time.

But in a car like that? Kicky little European cars weren’t exactly known for their mileage, and they were a long way from New York. That was why Billy had picked this city.

There weren’t many people who’d mount a trip to the opposite coast in a car like that. Billy could only think of one person who would.

He probably didn’t even drive the fucking thing all the way over. He’d probably had it shipped. Spoiled asshole prince who couldn’t stand the thought of driving a rental car, not even for a day. Billy couldn’t believe he used to find it endearing.

“I’ll see if I can’t get the plate number from this,” Frank said, pocketing his phone. “If I can, I’ll have Alias run them. She’s got her nice little P.I. side hustle and she probably owes me a favour.”

‘have you seen that car around here before?’ Billy asked.

“I don’t think so,” Frank said. “Street parking’s kind of a mess in this neighbourhood. People park in front of my house all the time. It could be nothing.” He didn’t sound convinced.

Billy sat up. Frank stood at his kitchen counter, jaw tight and arms folded. He stared out the window into the alley between his and his neighbour’s house, one finger holding the white curtains open.

There wasn’t much out there. Just the green bins and the recycling, tracks from animals trying to get into both. Not enough light to grow anything worth looking at. Billy curled his legs under him and rested his chin onto the back of the couch. He wondered if Frank had set up a camera out there, too.

“Are you okay?” Frank asked.

Billy clicked his tongue. ‘you already asked me that.’

Frank let the curtain drop. He crossed the room, looked down at Billy and ran his fingers through his hair.

Billy leaned into the touch without meaning to.

“Humour me,” Frank said.

Billy rolled his eyes. He gave Frank a thumbs up.

Frank’s hand slid down to the side of Billy’s face, his thumb brushing against the small lines at the corner of Billy’s eye. “I think from now on you need to be careful when you go out,” he said.

Billy pressed his lips together. He’d been thinking along the same lines, although he wasn’t happy about it. He swiped his thumb across his phone.

‘if they’ve tracked me here it wont matter,’ he typed.

“Who’s ‘they’?” Frank asked sharply.

Billy hadn’t realised the trap he’d walked into until he heard Frank’s voice snap. He tapped a few letters—an ‘i’, an ‘a’—before he hit delete, delete. He sighed, let his chin sink again into the soft leather back of the couch, and typed: ‘old friends.’

“People you worked for in New York?” Frank asked. Billy stared at his phone. “Are we talking about the mob here, Bill?”

The screen dimmed and went dark. Frank sighed.

“You need to talk to me about this,” he said, pushing his hand back through Billy’s hair. Strands fell loose, tickling the top of Billy’s ears, his forehead and brow.

Billy narrowed his eyes at him.

“You know what I mean,” Frank said, brushing his thumb over Billy’s closed lips. “I need to know. Billy, if this is the mob—.”

Billy turned away and fell back onto the couch. Frank pushed out another, harder sigh.

“You can’t keep me in the dark, Bill. If you’ve brought this kind of trouble to my doorstep, I need to know.” His voice had gotten rough, a rumble close to a growl between his words. Billy clenched his jaw. “Micro will need to know. We’ve got a lot of irons in the fire.”

Billy inhaled, nostrils flaring. He stood up stumbling for a moment as he regained his balance. His hands shook as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket, marching towards the door. He couldn’t explain the sudden flare of his temper, the flashbang going off behind his eyes, lighting up old, familiar pathways in his thoughts.

Frank caught him before he could touch the knob. “Hey,” he said as Billy tried to twist his arm out of his grip. “Hey! What the hell—?”

It was what Billy had been primed for, finally here. The limit to Frank’s affection, or charity, or whatever he wanted to call it. The thing about Billy that would prove to be too much for Frank. Of course it would be his enemies.

Frank had to look out for himself. It made sense, even in the middle of his anger, Billy could admit that. He couldn’t explain why it stung. Worse than it had in a long time.

Frank wrapped his arms around Billy from behind, tight and unmovable as iron bars. Billy grunted, pain spiking from his injured side.

“Calm down,” Frank said, breath hot around the curve of Billy’s ear.

Fuck, Frank was strong. Any other time, Billy would’ve appreciated how easily Frank could manhandle him.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Billy snarled. He tried to wriggle out of Frank’s grip. The few extra inches of height he had over Frank made it difficult for Frank to pull him off the floor, get him off balance, although he still tried. Billy’s bare feet slid against the hardwood. He cursed and kicked Frank in the shin. Frank grunted.

Lola yelped, her teeth snapping together from somewhere close behind. Both men froze at the sound.

Billy could feel Frank’s face pressed into the curve of his neck, feel Frank’s chest flush against his back, the pounding of his heart in close tandem to the pace of Billy’s own. His breath tickled the strands of Billy’s hair that’d fallen out of his style.

“I’m gonna put you down,” Frank said quietly. “If you try for the door again, I will stop you.”

Billy pushed out a shaking breath through his nose.

“I won’t enjoy it,” Frank said, sounding apologetic. Billy scoffed.

Frank’s arms softened, his grip loosening. He set Billy down carefully.

Billy pushed away from Frank, gained a few steps of distance between them while he caught his breath. The temper that’d burned hot through his mind had sizzled, leaving behind glowing embers of regular, manageable anger. Billy ran his hand over his face, gaze darting towards the front door.

He could still try it. Frank had said he’d stop him, but why would that scare Billy? He could make a run for it. He could start screaming, attract some neighbourhood attention and sympathy. Maybe get the cops involved. Frank looked like bad news. Anyone would believe Billy if he told them Frank tried to hurt him, especially with his still-healing bruises. It’d probably be easy to get away after that.

Billy dropped his hand with an aggravated sigh and looked away. Frank relaxed his stance. Lola lowered her head to the floor, licking her lips.

Frank turned to her and sank to the floor. He rubbed the thin fur behind her ears, spoke to her in a soft voice, too low for Billy to make out.

Billy eyed the front door but the moment had passed. He rubbed the buzzing skin at the back of his neck. He could still feel Frank’s breath there, as if he’d never let him go.

“What the hell was that all about?” Frank asked.

Billy’s fingers went still. He bowed his head, worried his lower lip with his teeth.

“I’m not here to be your fuckin’ burden.” He winced at the sound of his voice, rough and weak.

He heard the quiet shift of fabric, the hiss of bare feet across the hardwood floor. He felt Frank’s approach by the static in the air, by the way the hair on his arm would rise when Frank came close.

“You shouldn’t talk,” Frank said quietly.

Billy stared out the picture window, out onto the street. Barbeque smoke curled up from behind peaked roofs, shadows tilting across green lawns and flowering gardens. Cars sat on the curb, lined up on the east side of the street, all sensible shades of black and white, blue and grey. Frank’s sports car wasn’t among them, nestled safely under a tarp in the attached garage.

He flinched when he felt Frank’s fingers brush against the small of his back, pushing the hem of his shirt up.

“You’re not a burden,” Frank said, his hand sliding up the curve of Billy’s spine. He placed a kiss on the knob at the base of his neck, where a line of black ink peeked out just above the collar of his shirt. Ex nihilo.

“I wanted to take you in,” he said. “I want to help you. But you need to let me.”

It would be too much.

Billy tracked a woman as she walked down the sidewalk, her little terrier trotting along at her side. He wanted to believe Frank. Wanted to lean back into his weight, take the support he was offering so easily, but Billy was no fool.

The hold Frank had on him was dangerous. All he needed to do was touch him and Billy got weak. On his way to being tamed. He didn’t miss that Frank was using the same voice on him that he’d used on Lola only moments before. It should’ve pissed him off.

 

He couldn’t tell Frank the truth. It would be too much. If Frank found out, this little… thing they’d built together, this relationship or whatever it could be called, would be finished. Frank would have to send him away. Micro would demand it. And he’d be right to.

Billy was being stupid about this, and not just because he should’ve left town the second he was well enough to stand under his own power. Now it was too late.

 

Frank let his hand drop with a sigh. Billy tensed, wondering if he’d have to handle this argument now, but Frank only placed another kiss at the nape of his neck and stepped back.

“We should eat,” he said, turning away. “You hungry?”

* * *

Billy tried to relax into the second week. Frank reluctantly returned to his day job at the gym, keeping him out of the apartment a few hours every day. To his credit, though he was obviously worried, he didn’t hover, didn’t try to impose restrictions on Billy’s freedom. He only asked that Billy keep his phone on him.

“Where else would I keep it?” Billy had it in his hand, flipping through the digital pages of his latest borrowed novel. A Scandinavian detective thriller, the second in a series of thirty.

Frank stood by the entrance, looking at Billy like he had other things on his mind; brows drawn, a crinkle forming on his forehead, lips pulled into a frown. He tapped his fingers against the wall.

“Do you mind bringing Lola with you, if you do go out?” he asked. “She could use the exercise.”

 “Yeah, I’ll keep your dangerous attack pit bull with me at all times,” Billy said. He sat up to face Frank. “Hey, if I do run into trouble, maybe she can distract them by rolling over and begging for a treat. That’ll make them think twice about shooting me.”

Lola’s ears perked up, her tail slapping the ground once at the sound of the word ‘treat’.

Frank glanced at her and then at Billy. He didn’t seem to find it funny.

“Just keep her with you,” he said.

They hadn’t talked about it since the scare with the car, since Billy had tried to leave. Frank hadn’t asked about the old friends Billy had mentioned, but Billy could tell he hadn’t forgotten.

Billy kept him distracted the best ways he knew how: with fights and with fucking.

Billy was still waiting for Frank to say something about all the things he kept bringing in to the home. Frank’s bathroom had fallen to Billy’s belongings, almost completely colonized. That was bad enough but it got worse when Billy found Frank adding empty hangers to his closet, pushing his clothes off to one side. Making space for Billy, without Billy asking him to.

Who did that?

Billy retaliated by coming home—coming _back_ that same afternoon with a bag stuffed with new toiletries, a pair of shoes he didn’t need, and some new clothes.

“I bought some new shit,” he said, dropping the bags onto the kitchen table, inches from where Frank was enjoying a post-work out bowl of protein-enriched cereal.

“Nice,” Frank said as he scrolled through Twitter.

“I’m gonna need more space in the bathroom,” Billy said casually. “Probably just gonna move your cologne, your deodorant… Whatever else you’ve got left.”

“There’s a mirror over the dresser,” Frank said, voice muffled by granola and dried berries. “Just move my shit out there.”

Billy pressed his lips together. He felt like he’d gotten called out on a double-dog-dare.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he began, leaning his hip against the back of the couch. “My apartment’s pretty much unusable now until we get this thing figured out, right?”

“Right. No goin’ back ‘til you let me kill the people behind this,” Frank said, ‘liking’ a tweet with a tap of his thumb.

“Sure.” Billy sucked in air through his teeth. “But in the meantime, I got a lot of my things just sittin’ out there, behind a flimsy door with a standard lock. I don’t feel real secure about that,” he said. Frank tapped his screen again. “Maybe I should get some stuff brought back here. More of my clothes.”

“I love your clothes,” Frank said, digging his spoon through the bowl.

 Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe some other stuff, too.” He wracked his brain, trying to think of anything he liked that hadn’t gotten smashed or stabbed or bled on. “I got a… side table. A toaster.” Probably still in one piece.

Frank only hummed. A message dinged in his inbox, which he ignored.

“A bed,” Billy tried, feeling exasperated. “How about I just replace all your furniture with mine?”

“Whatever you like, darlin’,” Frank said.

It was so frustrating, coming against Frank with his anger. All his sharp edges coming up against Frank’s _patience_. Billy was used to getting what he wanted from people, even when what he wanted was a decent fight. To get under their skin. With Frank, it was like trying to slice fog.

So far he hadn’t found an end to it. The best he could get out of Frank was a sigh of exasperation, a bite of annoyance in his tone. Every time Billy would try to push Frank’s buttons, Frank would do something frustrating, like pull Billy into his arms and say something stupid.

“You get mean when you’re nervous,” he told Billy as he tried half-heartedly tried to wriggle free from Frank’s hug. “And you become a real asshole when you’re scared.”

Billy huffed and turned his head, but Frank caught the corner of his lips with a kiss.

This was usually when Billy’s heart would gallop in his chest and his fingers and the base of his skull would start to tingle.

“There’s no cause for it,” Frank said, so perfectly fucking patient that it made Billy want— want to—.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Frank said. He cupped his hand around the back of Billy’s neck. Trying to gentle him the way he probably gentled his fucking dog. Tamed and defanged the way people were always trying to do to Billy. Leave him worse off than they’d found him.

“Fuck you. I’m not afraid of you,” Billy said.

Which was absolutely true and Billy would prove it by switching to his second distractionary tactic. With his bruises fading and his cuts healing, Frank had stopped treating him like he was made of glass and started treating him the way he liked to be treated. (Although the gentle, slow approach had its appeal too, Billy supposed.)

Two weeks living with Frank. Billy knew where the closest grocery store was, the closest liquor store, the closest library and the dog park. People started recognizing him when he would visit with Lola.

The welcome wagon that’d tried to flirt their way into his good graces had started asking him about his relationship with Frank. How long they’d known each other, how they met, and then they went on to more personal stuff, asking after his and Frank’s first date, their anniversary, cooing over every bit of information Billy gave them like he was one of their dogs performing a trick. Somehow he’d become the neighbourhood’s pet gay.

Billy lied to them, just to amuse himself.

“Me and Frank met during deployment,” Billy told a flock of them one day. “We shared a tent. Saved each other’s lives. Formed a bond that couldn’t be broken,” he said, dredging up memories of the war movie he’d watched last night.

As if cued by a teleprompter, they all went ‘aww’.

“It must’ve been difficult for you,” a woman named Jackie said.

“I always liked Frank,” one of them said. “He seems like such a cuddly bear.”

Billy cupped his hand over his mouth before they could see him smile.

“I wonder when we’ll see a ring on your finger,” a woman named Dulcie mused.

Billy stopped smiling at that. He whistled Lola back to him and retreated back home—Frank’s apartment. Back to Frank’s apartment.

It wasn’t a bad way to live. Somewhere around the thirteen-day mark, Billy stopped trying to pull an argument out of Frank. He had excuses. It was too hot to fight. It wasn’t worth the effort. It took too much energy to get even a little rise out of Frank. It was kind of childish, anyway. And it’d gotten annoying, just how often Frank tried to psychoanalyse his motives.

“You’re testing me,” Frank told him one night. They were tangled together on twisted sheets, sweat cooling on their bare skin.

Billy had pushed Frank again, this time over their shared dinner. Billy’d stopped helping, never offered and finally declined outright when Frank had asked him, just to see how long it would take Frank to notice.

Frank finally noticed. He asked him if he was in pain, and, when Billy said that he wasn’t, he asked him why he didn’t want to contribute.

Billy asked why he should. He didn’t ask to come here, didn’t ask to stay, but if Frank wanted him around so bad, then what was stopping him from taking advantage of Frank?

Common decency, Frank tried. Billy laughed at him.

“You think you can get me to snap,” Frank said. “You think you can push me away. Get me to like you less.” He traced the budding outline of wolfsbane, fingers brushing over Billy’s ribs. “I don’t know why you want that so bad. I’m not convinced you actually do. I think you think it’s easier to be alone and you’re looking for reasons to go back to it.”

“Do you charge by the hour, doc?” Billy asked with a sneer. Frank kissed him.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Bill,” Frank said. “You don’t have to keep looking for the limits here.”

Billy sniffed and tried to turn his head away, but Frank caught him, cupped the side of his face with one big hand and held him there. Met his eyes, held his gaze.

“It might be safer to be alone, but it’s not easier. You can just trust me,” Frank said.

Fighting wasn’t worth putting up with that shit. So Billy stopped.

* * *

At the end of the third week, Alias dropped by for a visit. Waltzed up to the apartment in a leather jacket and a pair of ripped jeans, as if she weren’t sweating through the same hell temperature of late July that baked the city like a kiln. The storm front that’d been lurking on the horizon all morning had finally spilled over the sky, black and grey clouds tumbling over the skyscrapers, dragging over the suburban sprawl.

“I got something on your mystery car,” she said once she was inside.

“We sent you that info days ago.” Billy leaned against the wall, his arms folded loosely over his chest. “You’ve only just now gotten something?”

“Your meathead boyfriend’s security footage only got me a partial number,” she said as she twisted the top off of a bottle of water. “Do you know how many cars have NYC plates? A couple mil. Do you know how many of them have 3R5 in them?”

“No,” Billy said.

Alias took a swig, downing water like it was a fifth of bourbon, finishing a quarter of the bottle in one gulp. “Lots.”

“But you got something?” Frank asked as he set the last of the clean cups from the dishwasher onto the cupboard shelf.

Alias nodded. She re-screwed the bottle top, reached into her jacket, and pulled out a slip of paper. “Car’s owned by a woman named Corrine Iannucci. Strangely enough, her listed address was upstate, outside of the city. Car’s in her name but she’s not the one who uses it.” She glanced at Billy. “Any of this sound familiar to you?”

Billy looked back. He could feel Frank’s gaze on the side of his face. He said nothing. He couldn’t even make himself shrug.

Alias took a step closer, the click of her heel dragging against the wooden floor. “Huh. You don’t recognize the family name? You should. And not just because the Iannuccis are one of the bigger families working out of New York. When I went digging into Corrine’s history, I found out that she and her late husband were once foster parents to a 17-year-old kid named William Russo. Now, does that name—”

She broke off as Billy stalked towards her, stepped into her space until he was inches away. To her credit, she didn’t back down, not even when Billy drew himself up, used every extra inch of height he had on her.

“Why were you diggin’ through her history?” he asked quietly, breathing hard.

“Because I’m a nosy bitch, William,” Alias said. She reopened the bottle and took another drink. “And because your boyfriend asked me to.”

Billy spun around, turned his furious gaze onto Frank, who stared back without much in his expression.

“You brought mob business to our doorstep. That’s bad enough, but you had to do it while we were trying to work another family out of town. Do you know that the reason the Deshauers have been so quiet lately is because they’ve been meeting with some new player? No prize for guessing who. This is a pretty delicate time in our operation, William,” Alias said. “And you didn’t even think to tell us? That’s you being a shitty team player.”

“Fuck you,” he spat.

She gave a single laugh, her gaze sliding from Billy’s to something over his shoulder. “And you actually had the nerve to defend this guy? Micro’s been trying to hunt down the trash pile that’s attracted all these rats to our city, and all this time, it’s been stinking up your apartment.”

Billy cut a side-long look at Frank.

“I didn’t know.” Frank’s voice was a low rumble, like the sound from a volcano before an eruption.

“Well, Micro knows,” Alias said.

“You went to him?” Billy demanded.

Billy was not usually violent towards women, but the look Alias gave him begged some kind of action. His hands curled into tight fists.

“Yeah, I went to him,” she said. “Unlike you two, I am a good team player.”

Billy’s nostrils flared. He could feel his temper growing in his chest and his head, filling him, hot and dry as wood smoke. So thick he might exhale a plume of it.

“Not that you asked, but I’m fine,” Alias went on, still uncowed. “No one’s come after me. I don’t think anyone followed me home the same night someone tried to kill you. So, you know. Thanks for not dragging me into this mess, I guess. I would’ve appreciated the heads up, though.”

For the first time since Alias walked in, something flickered in Frank’s expression. He watched Billy, who found other things to look at.

“Anyway, I should probably scoot.” Alias stepped back, peeling out of Billy’s space. “I’ve still got shit to do today. You got yourself a name. Not sure why they were here two weeks ago but if you want my opinion, I’d say it’s because they know Frank’s close to you. Why they haven’t come back since is anyone’s guess. Maybe they’re trying your other contacts. You should probably put the word out.” She flicked a stand of hair from her face. “Let everyone you’ve ever fucked know that the mob is coming to fuck you in turn.”

Billy managed a tight smile, even as the edges of image started to fray. “Thanks for the tip,” he said.

She gave him a salute with her empty bottle and walked out the door.

* * *

The silence that fell in her wake felt like the silence between bursts of thunder. The clanging emptiness of one explosion’s aftermath still ringing in the space left between beats, the air charging with the growing energy of what was about to follow. Billy rubbed his fingers across his lips as he stared at the ground, his nostrils flaring on a shaking inhale.

“So.” Billy straightened, faced Frank with a half-smile twitching on his face. “I don’t tell you what you want to hear so you get your pet P.I. to check up on me?”

Frank watched him. He leaned against the edge of his kitchen table, arms folded tight over his chest, chin low, shoulders tense and mouth pressed tight.

“What else has she told you? What else has she dug up? Does she have a file on me? Did she give it to you? All this time you keep tellin’ me how well you know me—is this what you meant?” he asked, still smiling. “Because if it is, I gotta say, I am not impressed with your so-called insight.”

Frank’s fingers twitched where they lay on his bicep. A vein pulsed in his neck. The shadows that fell into the hollows of his brow didn’t do anything to hide the heat building in his eyes. Billy could feel it in the air, the burn of Frank’s temper as it built up, the way he could feel the storm outside build to the point of breaking.

“I asked you,” Frank said at last. “Before. I asked you what kind of trouble you were in. I asked if it was the mob. I told you why I needed to know. I told you it was important. To me. You wouldn’t tell me.”

“Jesus Christ, of course it was the fucking mob, Frank!” Billy gave an incredulous laugh. “What, did you think I left New York because I was tired of complainin’ about the MTA? Of course I was in fucking trouble. People don’t run unless they got somethin’ chasing them!”

Billy had forgotten, over the past few weeks of watching Frank play homemaker, watching him pet his dog, and treat Billy’s body like a house of cards primed to collapse, that Frank was strong and he was fast, and he was very, very dangerous.

He remembered too late. By the time he did, Frank had him in his arms again, knocked back against the wall, wrapped up tight with a strength that threatened to be painful. Threatened, but wasn’t. Not yet.

Billy could see Frank’s struggle for control, see the burn of his temper in his eyes, almost a twin to Billy’s own. Billy tried, as a rule, not to be ashamed of anything, but he was a little uneasy how this made him feel. The inappropriate spike of wanting, the heat that it produced, flaring down his spine, rooting into the base of his hips.

“Do you know,” Frank said, “how much trouble we’re in? You brought the mob to this city and didn’t tell any of us. You didn’t tell me—” He thumped Billy against the wall, a light knock that wasn’t quite hard enough to hurt. “—even as you slept in my bed. In my home. Did you recognize that car?”

“No,” Billy said.

Frank searched his expression. He breathed out, a huff of scorching breath onto Billy’s face. Billy tried to pull back, his pulse thudding through his body hard enough to shake his ribs, but there was nowhere to go. Frank had him pinned.

He had his knife. The switchblade in the front pocket of his gym shorts. Frank must’ve known. He was so close, he could’ve felt it.

“But you had your suspicions. Didn’t you?” Frank asked. Billy said nothing. “And what if they came back?” Billy looked away, out the window where the neighbourhood trees bowed in the rising wind. “What if I saw them again? What if they followed me to work? What if they came for me, Bill? What was I supposed to do?”

“You can take care of yourself,” Billy said.

That earned him another knock against the wall, his head snapping back with the force of it. Billy grit his teeth.

“ _How am I supposed to take care of myself if I don’t know what’s comin’_?” Frank demanded. “Did you even think about me at all?”

“Fucking Christ, Frank,” Billy snapped. “I tried to leave, remember? You wouldn’t let me.”

Frank barked a single, bitter laugh. Heat washed over Billy like backdraft from a burning building.

“That was just a temper tantrum,” Frank said, leaning in, filling Billy’s narrowing vision. “You were a kid packing a suitcase because you weren’t getting enough attention. You didn’t want to leave. You wanted me to fight for you. You wanted me to prove something to you. Is that what this still is? Would you have kept me in the dark, in danger, just to make me prove somethin’ to you?”

Thunder cracked. Billy slammed himself back against the wall, trapping Frank’s arms. He braced himself, got one leg between them, and kicked Frank’s thigh, forcing them apart. Frank stumbled back as Billy snatched the lamp from the side table and brought it down on Frank’s head. He missed—Frank dodged—and hit his shoulder instead. Billy howled like he used to, like he hadn’t in years, voice tearing out of his throat like it hurt. He ran forward, tackled him to the ground.

They struggled and there was no grace to it. The close quarters made it rough. Billy was fast and he was strong, but Frank was just as fast, maybe a little stronger. Billy got a few hits in, split the skin over Frank’s right brow with his fist, but it cost him his hand as Frank caught his wrist. He rolled them over, flipped their positions, slammed Billy against the ground, knocking the air out of his lungs.

Billy gasped, pain splintering from his abdomen, stars blinking in his vision. The anger that’d enveloped him like a wave pulled back just as quickly. He stared up at Frank like he’d never seen him before and felt something warm spill over his stomach.

Lola’s barking almost drowned out the next roll of thunder, the drumming of the downpour falling from the split sky. She stood up in her crate, spittle flying from her lips.

Frank pulled himself up onto the heels of his palms. He looked down at the red stain spreading over Billy’s tank top, the anger draining from his expression.

Billy didn’t have to look to know he’d popped his stitches.

“You should’ve just let me go,” he panted. Frank’s gaze snapped up to his face.

Frank’s eyes held him for a beat and Billy couldn’t say what he read in his face, couldn’t say why it landed like a weight on his chest, why it was hard to breathe.

This was what he knew would happen. The end of Frank’s patience, here at last.

Frank touched his fingers to the damp fabric of his ruined shirt.

“Billy…” Frank’s hand flattened, gentle and warm, over Billy’s bleeding abdomen. “I don’t—.”

The shrill cry of a fire alarm pierced the air, drowning out rain, thunder, and Lola. Frank pulled back like he’d put his hands on hot coals, jerked upright to his feet. Billy sat up, feeling stunned.

The piercing shriek filled everything, even the space between his thoughts. Billy opened his mouth to say that maybe it was a false alarm when he caught sight of the haze sliding down from the ceiling, smoke oozing from the vents.

Frank cursed. He grabbed Billy’s arm in a bruising grip and yanked him to his feet. He snagged Lola’s collar with his other hand and hauled them both out the door and into the hall, where smoke filled from ceiling to floor, rolled down from the stairs, thick enough to sting Billy’s throat, to bring water to his eyes.

Frank pulled them all outside, stumbling down the porch to the front lawn, where they fell into the veil of heavy rain. Billy landed on his knees, coughing. Frank sagged beside him, hands on his thighs.

“Maybe the rain’ll put it out,” Billy said, voice tight and choked.

Frank shook his head, panting weakly. “This wasn’t an accident,” he said. Rain traced a line down the broken length of his nose, dripped over the hollows of his eyes.

Billy swallowed. Frank turned away. He huffed, spraying water from his lips, and pushed Lola’s collar into Billy’s hand.

“Get out of here,” he said and stood up. “Keep your phone on you and keep Lola with you. I’ll call you.”

Billy struggled to his feet. “Where are you going?” he demanded but the answer became obvious as Frank stepped foot onto the front porch.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Billy lunged forward, grabbed the collar of Frank’s shirt and tried to haul him back.

“I got tenants,” Frank said, yanking free. “An old lady upstairs. I can’t—”

“That’s for the fucking fire department to worry about,” Billy said. Frank shoved him back.

“This isn’t an argument,” Frank snapped, turning away. “Get out of here. We’ll meet—”

The front door swung open, a draft of air and smoke rushed at Billy like a tidal wave, hot on his face. A figure stood wreathed in curling black smoke. Billy caught sight of his curly blond hair, pale skin under smudged soot, a flash of teeth peeking out of white lips.

“Frank?” the figure said. Billy’s breath caught.

His head was rattled, rain drumming on his skull, blood oozing out of his reopened wound, Frank’s anger still buzzing the adrenaline under his skin—Billy could’ve told himself it wasn’t real, that this was just a delusion his mind had summoned from a bad dream.

Lola’s collar dug into the skin of Billy’s palm.

“That Polish lady, I heard her—!” Speaking in a rush, words tumbling over each other, a perfect simulacrum of a frightened human being. “Frank, you have to help her!”

Frank grabbed the other man and shoved him out of the way, putting himself between the burning building and his tenant.

The man stumbled back and fell against Billy. He looked up—

And smiled. “Hi,” Wesley Iannucci whispered.

Billy shoved him off—Wesley’s nails dragged down Billy’s bare arms—and ran.

He heard something crack behind him—what could’ve been the snap of a pistol or the snap of wood breaking in the flames. He ducked low and didn’t slow down to check which. He didn’t turn around, not even when he heard another pop, just audible over the next roll of thunder, or when he heard the roar of an engine at his back.

He tore through the streets he’d mapped out in his head over the last three weeks, navigating them even as rain fell in grey-black curtains over the neighbourhood, churning gardens to mud, turning gutters into rivers. Lola kept at his side, dragged along by the grip on her collar, until they were both gone, swallowed by the darkness of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left a message or a kudos or placed a bookmark, or the angels who've done all of the above. You're all amazing and valid as hell. 
> 
> Next week: things get worse.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iannucci's circle closer. Billy and Lola go to ground and wait for Frank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who has commented and bookmark'd and kudos'd and reblogged the tumblr posts and all the other little things. I really and truly appreciate it.
> 
> I'm going to post a sort of interlude chapter on **Friday, October 5th** in addition to the regularly scheduled updates so stay tuned for that!
> 
> Special thank you to Jun/ssealdog for beta'ing and also for helping inspire the contents of this chapter. He helped me out when I was stuck on how to proceed so what happens next is also partially his fault.

Frank fell asleep. He didn’t intend to.

He dreamed.

He dreamed he was a repairman during a time of war and his contribution to the effort was to go house to house and take their plumbing away. He saw friends he’d known from his childhood, went into their homes, crawled under their sinks and took their pipes. In one house, he met with his fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Zacks, who was trying to teach a class out of her living room. She looked just the same as he remembered her, in blue slacks and a white button-up, hair falling over her shoulder. He could hear her talking about _Catcher in the Rye_ from the other room over the sound of metal clanging as he worked.

In another house, he met with his parents. They didn’t get up when he came in, nor did they get up when he left. He thought he saw his childhood dog, a little terrier named Hudson, but he couldn’t find him when he went looking.

He went to Maria’s house.

She was married but her husband was out. He’d gone to war and left her with her three children. Frank never saw their faces. They hid behind her skirts or scattered like birds when he entered a room. Maria talked to him about her husband. He was a good man. She hoped he lived through the war. Frank said he hoped so too.

Maria told Frank her neighbour was stock-piling pipes for his own selfish purposes. She didn’t approve of that kind of thing while her husband was at war. Frank told her he’d take care of it.

He thought he saw Lola in Maria’s house. But when he went looking, he couldn’t find her. Maria said they didn’t have a dog or a husband and now they didn’t have any pipes. She asked him to please leave.

The house next door was dark and no one answered when Frank knocked. Frank went inside.

All the rooms were empty. There was no furniture and there was nothing on the walls. There were no curtains on the windows, no doors in any frame.

There were pipes.

They grew out of the walls, bent and curved like broken arms and legs, a gun-metal gleam in the gloomy interior. They bubbled up from the stairs, twisting like Geiger vines, around the bannister, out of the walls, from every step.

Frank thought he heard a sound like a dog whimpering, or a child. He followed it upstairs.

Water rushed through the pipes, a soft whisper like rain, like someone being soothed, _shh-shh_. There were no doors and all the bedrooms were empty. Frank thought he could hear the water heading towards the master bedroom, so he followed it.

He found Billy, seated on the floor, surrounded by hissing pipes. He had his elbow braced on one outgrowth, a cigarette dangling from his index and middle fingers, legs stretched out in front of him. He blinked up at Frank.

 _What do you want,_ Billy asked. Smoke billowed in great clouds from his lips.

Frank told him about the war.

Billy put his cigarette between his lips and inhaled. Frank heard the skitter of paws on hardwood behind him. Lola trotted into the room, pausing to nose at the back of Frank’s knee, before continuing to where Billy sat. She lay down on the floor and put her head in his lap.

Frank felt a stab of longing. He got down on his knees.

 _I can’t leave this place_ , Billy said. _These pipes are primed to burst._

 _I didn’t steal them_ , he said. _They just started growing. I tried taking down the doors but it didn’t matter. They grow and grow and now I’m stuck._

Billy took another drag. He didn’t look upset about it. Smoke rose from the floorboards.

 _I could help you_ , Frank said. Lola thumped her tail, a clang against metal.

 _You can’t_ , Billy said. Black smoke poured out of the tip of his cigarette. Frank’s chest shuddered. He put his hand over his mouth.

 _You shouldn’t have come in here_ , Billy said.

_Now you’re stuck too._

Frank heaved, his breath coming in ribcage-rattling coughs. He crawled forward on his knees, reaching out, but he could barely see Billy through the smoke. The pipes hissed and rattled like angry snakes. Frank thought he saw the pale curve of Billy’s arm but when he reached out he felt something sting his hand, like he’d grabbed a handful of nettles, a handful of sharp teeth.

And then—.

* * *

Frank fought his way through the dream images that clung to him like cobwebs until he could find his way back to awareness. When he did, and he got his eyes opened and focused, several things became apparent.

The first and most pressing was the man seated across from him with a pistol on his lap, the muzzle pointed at Frank. He was not someone Frank recognized.

He straightened when he realised Frank was awake, blinking rapidly as if he were on the verge of falling asleep himself.

“He’s up,” he said, turning a little in his seat to address the partially opened door behind him.

Frank was in what looked like a hotel room. He was seated in an armchair. His hands were not bound, which was good, but it didn’t mean much with a gun pointed at his chest. His clothes were damp. His knees, palms and his right forearm stung. When he looked down, he could see red welts across swelling from his skin, just visible under the faded red ink of his flame tattoos. Burn marks. That might’ve been ironic, he supposed. He reeked like a bonfire.

“Would you like something to drink?”

Frank looked up.

Wesley stood in the now-opened door, framed by the glare of white light from what Frank assumed was the bathroom beyond. He had his sleeves rolled up, his face and arms scrubbed to a raw-looking pink.

“You went back for the Polish ladies,” Wesley said. “Your house burned down. Sorry about your clothes. I could see if we’ve got something your size, if you feel like changing.”

Frank tried to talk but all that came up was a cough. Wesley winced. Frank cleared what felt like a mountain of rubble and debris from his throat before he tried again.

“Water,” he said.

Wesley nodded to the gunman. “You heard our guest.”

He stood. Wesley took his gun and took his seat. He sprawled back, the pistol sideways on his lap, pointed at Frank once more.

“I hope you don’t mind this,” Wesley said.

Frank stared back at him.

“Okay, I guess it would make sense if you did. No one likes seeing a gun aimed at them. Well, actually, I used to know this one girl who got off on it. Roleplay stuff. She assumed the gun wasn’t loaded, though, which is a hell of a thing to trust your partner with. She always said she could tell so I kept mine loaded when we were together and you know what? She never said anything. But yeah, guns are pretty personal. Also I did burn down your house. If it’s worth anything to you, I didn’t want to do it. I liked living there. I mean, I don’t care for this town but the place wasn’t bad. You were a decent landlord. But I heard you and Billy having your little domestic spat, and I figured he was about to bolt so I had to do something drastic.”

Frank heard the door behind him open and the man returned a moment later with a glass of water in his hand. He set it down on the table beside Frank and, at Wesley’s nod, took his leave once more.

“We were planning something a little less destructive,” Wesley said as Frank drained half the glass. “I was gonna have him nabbed while you were at work but my cousin wanted me to wait until he was free. I mean—” Wesley broke off with a little laugh. “He comes all the way out to the west coast for his revenge and then he leaves for a couple days to do some business with the family here. The DeSerres or whatever. Typical of the guy. Anyway, he wanted to get Billy personally—I think he’s got, like, this fantasy about their reunion. He’s a bit of a control freak.”

Frank finished his water, licked his lips, and glanced at the glass in his hand. He looked at the edge of the table beside him, thinking. A smash would give him a handful of weapons, but it could also give him a handful of pain and Wesley could just shoot him before he found out which.

“You’re with the Iannuccis,” Frank said, putting the glass down.

“That’s right,” Wesley said.

“Is your name really Wesley?” Frank asked.

Wesley looked surprised. “Yeah, of course. I’m sorry about lying to you before but my first name really is Wesley. That’s gotta be worth something, right? I know it’s not a very Italian name but my mom liked the sound of it. Do you want a change of clothes? I don’t know what we’ve got but we might have something in your size. You’re like, what? An XXL?”

“I’m fine,” Frank said.

“You sure?” Wesley asked. “I mean, you got drenched in the rain and then, like, burned up in a house fire. Actually, that’s me being kind of dramatic.” He laughed again. “It wasn’t all that bad. You’re okay, you just got some second-degrees. Maybe you inhaled some smoke. You coughed a few times in your sleep. I didn’t know people could do that. I can get a doctor if you need one.”

“What happened to the Baranskis?” Frank asked, ignoring the offer.

“Oh, the Polish ladies? They’re fine. You got the old woman out before you collapsed,” Wesley said. He broke into a smile. “It was really something, what you did. You actually ran back into a burning building. You’ve got a real heroic streak for someone who robs and kills people for a living.”

Frank slumped back into the chair and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t remember what happened,” he said.

“You’re not actually supposed to go back into burning buildings,” Wesley informed him helpfully. “There’s all kinds of literature out there that tells you why it’s a bad idea. You nearly suffocated. Luckily, I managed to get you out of there before the fire department arrived.”

Frank looked at the soot-streaked tips of his fingers and frowned. “How long did you know Billy was staying with me?” he asked.

“Only for the last two days,” Wesley said. “But I’m guessing he was there for a lot longer than that. It was pretty clever of you, only working when I wanted a class. It meant I was always out when he was unguarded.”

“I didn’t plan it,” Frank said.

“Really? Because I was ready to be impressed. Like, really impressed. I only spotted him two days ago because I left Gleason’s early, remember?”

“If I’d known you were after Bill, I wouldn’t have played games,” Frank said. “I would’ve just killed you.”

Wesley frowned. “Wow, that’s a little extreme, don’t you think? Kind of hurtful, too. I thought you and me had a rapport. But I get it.” He softened. “Billy makes people crazy. He made me crazy, once upon a time.” Wesley edged forward in his seat, his voice lowering. “Is he still a freak in bed? Christ, the things he used to do to me. Let me do to him. I used to dream about his mouth. Do you think I’ll get to use him one last time before we put him down? I know Lucas wants to drag his revenge out, but maybe he’ll let me get pretty Billy on his knees again.”

Frank could see the glare of light shining off the glass, just inches from his hand. He was fast. But a finger on a trigger would always be faster. He kept his hands on the arm of the chair, fingers loose, shoulders relaxed.

Wesley leaned his elbows on his knees and smiled at Frank. “You are just a… a rock, aren’t you? Just stone. I hope you didn’t have feelings for him. If you did, I’m here to tell you that you were wasting your time. That guy’s got no heart. No soul. I mean, look at where you are now. He sees you’re in trouble, running back into a burning building with me on your lawn, and what does he do? He bolts. Leaves you high and dry. Burnt and dry. He’s cold, Frank. And you could do way better.”

Frank stared. He could hear the hush of rain on the windows, see water beading on the near-black glass, little pools of lamplight that broke into rivulets. The worst of the storm had passed. Frank wondered if the rain had helped with his home, in the end. If there was anything even left.

The door opened once more and Wesley’s eyes widened. He jumped to his feet.

“Hey,” he said. His cheeks were stained red. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon…”

“After I heard about your latest, Wesley, I thought it would be best if I hurried,” came the dry reply. A man circled around the back of Frank’s chair, coming to the now vacated seat across from him. In spite of the heat, he wore a dripping trench coat over a grey two-piece suit. He had short-cropped blond hair and a square-ish face. He had the bland handsomeness of an orthodontic surgeon or a real-estate broker in a bus-stop ad. He looked like his name was Chris, even if it wasn’t. He gave Frank a smile.

“You must be Castle,” he said as he took his seat. “You look like a man who’s had a hell of a night. My cousin’s quite the chatty guy, ain’t he? Hopefully he wasn’t too much for you. He tells me you guys were kind of buddies, so maybe you’re used to it.”

“You’ve had him spying on me,” Frank said.

‘Chris’ shifted in his seat, pulling his arms out of the sleeves of his coat without standing up. “Yeah. Well, we were looking for Micro, actually. I figured he might know which rock Billy had crawled under…” He shrugged his jacket off and threw it onto the little dining table to the side.

“You didn’t get to Micro,” Frank said.

“Regrettably, no,” ‘Chris’ said. “Met his enemies, though.”

“You still found Billy’s apartment. How?” Frank asked.

“You’re just looking for all the magician’s secrets, aren’t you?” Probably-Chris pulled at the knot at his throat. “I didn’t get that address. We put a price on Billy’s head months ago. Some resourceful hitman must’ve dug it up, for all the good it did him. Anything else you want to know?”

“Yeah.” Frank sat back. “Who are you?”

“Oh, yeah.” He laughed. “I haven’t said. Shit, that’s rude.” He pulled his blueberry coloured tie all the way loose. “My name is Lucas. My parents fostered Billy when he was 17 years old and kept him around after he aged out of the system,” he said.

“I was the closest thing to a family he ever had. You’d think that would’ve been worth something to him. Never mind.” He clapped his hands onto his thighs. “Let’s get to the meat of the issue, yeah? You’ve had a long night. I don’t want to keep you any longer. Just tell me where Billy is and we can let you go.”

Frank had been expecting this. “I don’t know,” he said.

Lucas squinted at Frank. “Not sure I believe you, Castle.”

“I don’t really give a shit what you believe,” Frank said with a shrug. “Your cousin summed the situation up pretty cleanly, before. My house caught fire. I told Billy to run. He ran. I didn’t see where he went. We didn’t have time to hash out details.”

“You told him you would call him,” Wesley said. Frank had forgotten he was there. “That was almost two hours ago, by the way.”

“Oh, good. You can call him now. Tell him you’re ready to meet him and we’ll collect him. Easy,” Lucas said.

Frank sniffed. He sat back and spread out, crossed his leg over his knee and folded his hands on his stomach. Lucas sighed and mirrored his stance.

“Frank. Is it alright if I call you Frank?” Lucas asked. Frank said nothing. “I think you should be reasonable about this, Frank. I know you’re a decent guy—for a killer, I mean. But Billy’s not someone who’s worth any kind of decency from anyone.”

“That a fact,” Frank said.

“It is,” Lucas said, the friendliness dropping away from his expression. “Billy Russo is a snake pretending to be a man.”

Frank hummed, the sound rough enough to be a growl. He couldn’t see a gun anywhere but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still pointed at him. He hadn’t heard Wesley leave. He probably had the pistol still on him. Frank rubbed his thumb over the bridge of his nose.

“What’d he do to you, anyway?” Frank asked.

Lucas wound his tie through his fingers. His smile dissolved, leaving the lines around his eyes and mouth loose.

“My father’s name was Antony Iannucci. Do you know him?” Lucas asked.

Frank shrugged. It sounded familiar.

“He was a great man,” Lucas said. “When he arrived in the Bronx in the 70s, the place was a mess. Just complete chaos, all these little family squabbles, no central power. He united the warring city states under one banner, seized control, made the Iannucci family one of the most powerful in the city. He was a legend. I was his only son.” Lucas clasped his hands together between his knees, as if he were about to start praying.

“I met Billy in juvie. He caught my eye. Well, you’ve seen him. Can you imagine how that pretty boy made out in prison? A couple of guys cornered him, tried to start trouble and he gave it to ‘em. Bit one on the hand, hard enough to draw blood. Billy was… something. Even back then. I had him moved to my cell. I grew attached. When I got out, I asked my parents if we could keep him. My dad paid for his legal counsel, got him out during his first parole hearing. We took him home and my dad paid for everything. New clothes, textbooks, shoes, the works. He ate my mom’s cooking. He ate my grandma’s cooking, too. Sat every night at our kitchen table, slept in the bed we gave him, in the room we gave him.”

Frank watched with mild fascination as Lucas’ expression changed, twisted, and finally emptied.

“My father got sick,” Lucas said. He stared at his discarded coat, at the sleeve dangling over the edge of the table. “Heart attack. A couple weeks before I was due to get married. He lived long enough to see me stand at the altar, at least. Billy gave him that.” He looked up, caught Frank’s gaze. “And then he killed him. Smothered a sick old man in his bed, in the home he opened up for him. Billy Russo is _not_ ,” Lucas said, excitement spreading his pupils in the muddy waters of his hazel eyes, “a person.”

Frank just stared, keeping everything out of his face.

“That wasn’t the end of it,” Wesley said helpfully. He crossed the room and Frank saw the gleam of the pistol, still held level at Frank’s head, even as he moved. “In the aftermath of Uncle Antony’s death, everything was chaos. He played me and Lucas off each other, made us throw our guys against each other.” Wesley dug a box of cookies from the plastic bags left on the kitchenette counter.

Lucas sat up and rubbed his hand over his face. “He wanted to destroy the whole family. Weaken us for our enemies to finish off.”

“Billy killed my dad,” Wesley said. His hand froze over the sleeve of Oreos, his expression turning blank. “My dad wanted me to take over the family, but Lucas was in the way. Uncle Antony’s only heir and all that. Things got kind of Shakespearean between the two of us for a while, and Billy played both sides. My dad worked with Billy because he thought Billy would help me and then Billy killed him and made it look like Lucas was behind it.” He sniffed and twisted a cookie in two. “I would’ve killed Lucas but he put me in the hospital. Billy did, I mean,” he said. “I tailed him one night because I thought he was cheating on me. I guess he was, in a sense, because I found him with some mick from the other side of the river. One of the Kitchen Irish looking to move in on our turf. I went to confront him and he shot me.”

“Billy fled the city after that,” Lucas said. “I went to talk to Wesley in the hospital and thank god I did. I had my suspicions about Billy but I never would’ve known just how far he’d sunk if I hadn’t talked to Wesley. I would’ve kept fighting until it cannibalised the family.”

Silence fell between them. Neither of the Iannuccis were looking at the other. Frank got the feeling that bygones were not exactly bygones.

“And he was screwing us both,” Wesley said, breaking the quiet with a spray of crumbs. Lucas closed his eyes. “Behind each other’s backs. I think it hurt Lucas more than it hurt me.”

“Thanks, Wesley,” Lucas said.

“He was also screwing Lucas’ wife,” Wesley said.

Lucas stared at the floor like he wanted to set the carpet on fire. He closed his eyes again, let out a quiet breath, and composed himself.

“Like I said,” Lucas said, raising his head. “He isn’t a person. I mean, shit, Frank. I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Look what he’s done to your life and you’ve known him for—what? Six months? And now your house is gone. Your dog is gone. Shit, if you owned a truck he could’ve stolen, you’d be in a fucking country western song.”

“He does have a car,” Wesley said as he twisted another Oreo into two pieces. “Or… did, I guess.”

Frank had expected it—the house, the car, even Lola—but hearing them laid out on a list like that still stung. He breathed in long and let it out slow.

Lola… Lola might still be with Billy. And the rest of it—well. They were just things, he told himself.

Yes, but they were his things. He’d worked for them. He’d built parts of that house with his own two hands.

“I know. It’s rough,” Lucas said, looking sympathetic. “But that’s what he does to people. He cons them, sweet talks them, fucks them and then he wrecks them. But you know what could take the sting out of that loss?” Lucas asked, tilting his head. Frank looked up. “Money. Lots and lots of money. Remember what I said before? Billy’s got a price on his head.”

Frank’s gaze slid from Lucas’ face to the windows behind him. He watched the rain bead, connect, and fall in crooked lines down the glass and did some thinking.

The Iannuccis were big names. They were in town, apparently talking to the Deshauers. And, thanks to Alias, David knew that it was Frank’s boy who brought this trouble onto their doorstep. It would cost Frank. Jobs might be scarce after this, assuming David worked with him at all. Frank might even have to leave town for a bit.

He licked his lips and looked up.

“How much?” he asked.

Lucas smiled.

* * *

Billy listened to the thunder roll across the sky, its voice muted through the curtain of rain that’d gone slack but hadn’t fallen completely. The initial rage of the summer storm had passed and now it’d settled into something less intense, an easy fall that could last hours. Darkness increased by degrees as the sun sank behind the cloud cover, slipping past the western horizon.

It’d been almost two hours.

The glow of Billy’s phone filled the empty room. The light brushed the walls and the floor, giving shape to the darkness inside. There was no furniture, no pictures hanging on the walls. No sign of life at all but for a bowl of plastic fruit on the kitchen counter, a fan of real estate brochures, and the quiet pant of Lola’s breathing. Billy’d found this place on the lip of a churned up lot. Skeletal house frames were lined up in rows, padded with foam and plastic, tarps expanding like lungs in the breeze. The ground, once dust and now mud, had no sign of anything growing. Pieces of heavy machinery sat like the fossils of once-great creatures, necks drooping, half-obscured by the veil of rain.

Lola lay at Billy’s side, her body leaning against his. They were both on the floor in the living room, Billy with his back against the wall, his hand holding his bloodied side. He ignored the pain, watched the street through the front window. Cars splashed cold light across the interior, across Billy and Lola, as they turned the corner, skimmed the edge of this development with a spray of water and drove on to more populated pastures.

Billy looked to the battery life meter in the corner of his phone and pressed his lips together. He clicked his screen dark and knocked his head against the wall.

Two hours.

This was stupid. Billy shouldn’t have been waiting in some empty house that reeked of lemon cleaner, blood and wet dog, jumping at shadows while he waited for the Iannuccis to circle closer. He’d just seen Wesley, for fuck’s sake. He should’ve been on a bus to Vancouver by now. He should’ve dropped Lola off at a dog pound and gotten the fuck out of there.

Lola whined as he rubbed the velvety skin of her ears. She’d been restless but good. She hadn’t bitten him when he hauled her by her collar, or when he dragged her into this place, even though he hadn’t exactly been gentle. She’d stayed by his side even as he took her from her person. Loyal and stupid. Typical dog.

Now she watched the front door like she expected Frank to come through it any minute. Billy watched the window.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” he said. Lola looked up. “I used to be a lot smarter than this. I used to be good at saving my own skin. I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he went on as he rubbed the back of her neck. “He’s a good guy, your guy. Smart. Strong. Good lookin’. And that stamina…” He whistled. Lola’s ears perked up. “But that’s… I mean, there’s gotta be other guys like him out there, right? I’ve probably met ‘em before and I just don’t remember. There’s no reason to get… get all stupid about this. _Attached_.” He spat the word like it hurt to say.

He went quiet, listening to the murmur of rain outside. Another car splashed around the corner, sending a spray of grey water onto the empty sidewalk.

“Now I’m sitting here when I should be gone. Even though I know it’s too late. Waiting because I don’t want to think that he…” Billy’s voice thinned. “He’s gotta be… Shit.” He broke off and rubbed his face, pushed his damp hair back. “This is so fucking stupid. I don’t know why I called him that night,” he said. “I don’t know why I texted him before that. Or went on that fuckin’ date. Maybe I let myself get carried away because the sex was so good but I don’t know. I don’t know.”

He swallowed, stroking the top of Lola’s head.

“Except I do know,” he said. He closed his eyes and knocked his head against the wall again. “I am really fucking stupid,” he said through grit teeth. “Because a smart man wouldn’t find himself in this fucking position again. Last time I at least had the excuse of bein’ a teenager.”

He pushed out a hard, short breath through his nose, his eyes squeezed shut. Lola nosed at Billy’s leg.

“When he brought you home, did you think it was gonna be like the last time?” Billy asked. “Did you think he was like those assholes who strung you up? Starved and beat you. Shut you away until you were useful. Did you think he’d forgive you for the way you bit him? You left a mark on him, you know,” Billy said. Lola looked up and started to pant. “But he loves you anyway. He thinks you didn’t know any better. Took you home. You were nothin’ to him but he still wanted to keep you. What kind of man does that?”

Billy jumped as his phone lit up, rattling against the floor. Lola’s head snapped up.

“Frank?” It was a mark of just how relieved he was that Billy didn’t mind how desperate he sounded.

“Bill?” One syllable but Billy could hear the exhaustion in Frank’s voice.

“Jesus Christ.” He gave a shaking laugh, his head sagging. “You scared the hell out of me. You fuckin’ idiot. What did you think, running back into a burnin’ building like that? It’s been almost two hours. I thought—.” He stopped himself, pulling in a trembling breath.

“Sorry,” Frank said. “You still in town?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m holed up in a fuckin’ show house in the burbs,” Billy said. “Safe for now. I got Lola with me.”

He heard Frank’s quiet sigh of relief. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. Where are you? I can come to you.”

“I’m, uh. I’ll have to check. I’m not really sure,” Billy said.

“Find out and send me the address,” Frank said.

Billy frowned. Couldn’t Frank just track his phone?

“Frank, are you okay? You sound kind of…” Off. Now that the euphoria of hearing Frank’s voice again had worn off, Billy was left with a sense of unease. Frank didn’t sound right. He couldn’t explain how he knew it, but he did.

Frank laughed softly. “I’m fine. You’re just hearing all the smoke I inhaled.”

“Shit. You do sound rough,” Billy admitted. “Well. Rougher than usual.”

Frank laughed again, a quiet sound that plucked at something buried deep within the cave of Billy’s chest. He licked his lips.

“Look,” he said quietly. “About before… You were maybe right to be pissed. I should’ve—.”

“We can talk about that later,” Frank said.

Billy blinked, his mouth closing.

Frank sighed. “It’s been a hell of a night for us both. Let’s just meet up, okay? We can get a room together. Talk it out after a shower and some dinner. I would kill a man for a steak.”

The damp cold Billy’d been shivering through the last two hours seemed to fade, driven away from the inside out as his chest warmed at Frank’s words. A hotel room, a shower, dinner, all with Frank, sounded perfect.

“Yeah,” Billy breathed the word. He sounded just as tired, he realised. “That’s a smart plan.”

“I have them, from time to time.” Billy could hear the smile in Frank’s voice.

“Now and then,” Billy agreed. Frank hummed. Billy bit his lip, glanced down at Lola. “Hey, Frank?” His voice tripped but he pushed on. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Frank was quiet. Billy could hear the rasp of his breath on the other side of the line for several moments.

“You too,” he said at last. “Send me your address, okay? I’ll come and get you.”

The line went dead. Billy let out a slow, shaking breath, patted Lola on the top of her head, and stood up to do just as Frank asked.

* * *

Billy sat on the edge of the stairs, facing the front door. He watched headlights through the panelled glass roll past. He clutched his phone, jiggled his knee against his elbow, breathing quick and shallow. Lola sat on her haunches on the floor, her tail thumping now and then, easing from paw to paw. Just as restless as he was, maybe because he was.

Billy’s breath caught when a car pulled slowly past and then stopped, headlamps shining through the windows. He heard the click of a door closing, the splash and crunch of damp gravel under heavy feet, and saw a shadow through the tall, narrow windows framing the door. He stood up just as Lola did, her tail swishing through the air like a windshield wiper.

The door opened and Frank walked inside, alive and whole and only a little worse for wear. Billy let go of the breath he’d been holding.

“Thank fuck,” he said, almost collapsing into his arms.

Frank held him tight, hand fisting into the back of Billy’s sodden tank top.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said, breath buzzing in Billy’s ear.

“You too,” Billy said.

Frank gripped Billy’s neck and pressed his lips tight to his ear.

“Whatever happens next, I need you to trust me,” he whispered.

Billy blinked as Frank pulled away. “Frank, wh—.” He stopped cold.

Frank kept the pistol in his hand level, pointed right at Billy’s face. Billy saw the gleam of his switchblade in Frank’s hand before it vanished into his pocket.

Something roared in Billy’s head, a sound like the ocean in a seashell. He stared at Frank, at his cold expression, and wondered when he’d fallen asleep.

Frank knelt slowly, gun still pointed at Billy, and patted Lola on the back of her head. Her tongue lolled from her mouth as she made quiet little puppydog yips of happiness.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

“Frank?” Billy could barely recognize his own voice. He sounded the way he did before, when his throat was damaged. Choked and weak, his words a thread of sound.

“He’s here,” Frank said, raising his voice.

Billy heard footsteps on the porch, the click of expensive shoes on wood. He knew who was coming. He could feel it in the animal parts of his brain. He didn’t need to hear his voice.

“Hey, nice,” Wesley said as he stepped through the open door. “I didn’t exactly doubt you, Frank, but I’m relieved you didn’t try to pull any bullshit on us. Hey, cuz! We’ve got him.” Billy heard Wesley circling behind him.

“I can see that, Wesley.” Lucas stood in the front entrance, trench coat dripping, haloed by white light.

Hands grabbed Billy’s arms from behind, a boot to the back of his calves knocked his legs out from under him. His knees hit the ground hard. Something thin and stiff cinched his wrists together behind him before he could even think to struggle. Wesley gripped his chin with one hand and stuffed a cloth gag into Billy’s mouth.

“We’re good, right?” Frank asked, glancing at Lucas.

Billy waited for him to turn the pistol onto Lucas. Waited for Frank to pull whatever it was he wanted to pull. _Trust me_ , he’d said. Billy wanted to, with every wretched beat of his battered heart.

Lucas gave a single nod, his eyes locked on Billy’s face. “Yeah, we’re good. I’ll have the money transferred to your account tonight.”

Frank stared at him for a moment. He sniffed and flicked the pistol ‘round his finger, holding the butt out to Lucas. Billy made a sound low in his throat that he wasn’t proud of.

Wesley giggled. Lucas turned on him, eyes blazing.

“Look at you,” he breathed as he came close. “Look at your _face_.” He grabbed a handful of Billy’s hair and jerked his head up. “You actually liked this guy, didn’t you? Poor Billy. Still the tragic little orphan boy. Cheer up.” He twisted. A pained grunt pulled from Billy’s throat. “Frank here wouldn’t sell you out for any less than fifty grand. I mean, that shows some regard for your cocksucking skills, right?”

“Are we done here?” Frank growled.

“We’re done,” Lucas confirmed, looking distractedly over his shoulder. “You take your dog and I’ll take mine. Come on, Billy.” He yanked Billy to his feet.

Billy walked on numb legs, Lucas’ hand tight on the back of his neck, into the hissing rain. It didn’t occur to him to start fighting until he saw the car with its trunk open, the dark interior like an invitation. He dug in his heels, mud sliding under his feet, and struggled out of Lucas’ hold.

He didn’t make it far before Lucas lunged forward and slammed the butt of his pistol against the back of his head, knocking him down. Billy’s chest cracked against the edge of the open trunk, breath squeezed from his lungs with the impact, robbing him of his ability to shout at the flare of pain from his wounded side. Lucas forced him the rest of the way into the trunk and Billy turned his head in time to see Frank standing on the porch, Lola seated happily at his side, both of them bleached out by white light. Billy couldn’t see anything in Frank’s expression.

 _Trust me_ , he’d said. Billy waited for him to come forward. Even as the trunk slammed shut, cutting him off and leaving him in the close and clammy dark. Billy listened to his own shallow, panicked breathing and waited for Frank to do something.

 _I like you_ , he’d said. The doors clicked shut, the car heaving under the new weight as Wesley and Lucas settled.

_I’m gonna make you mine._

The engine roared to life, the car trembling with new energy. Billy felt it lurch, heard the crush of gravel under tires, and knew they were leaving. He bit down on his cheek until his mouth flooded with the taste of metal, squeezed his stinging eyes shut against the darkness, and fought with every ounce of strength left in him not to make a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	15. INTERLUDE: Lucas and Billy

They were careful. They were always careful. Mostly at Billy’s insistence. Lucas’ mother—Corrine Iannucci—was always asking questions. Lucas kept telling Billy that he worried too much. His mother was just nosy, she was always looking to pry her way into her son’s private life. She had been grilling his friends for years, ever since Lucas got old enough to start keeping secrets from her.

Billy ignored him. As far as he was concerned, he had a lot more to lose than Lucas did.

For a while, they were careful and things were good.

Billy was twenty when it happened. Lucas had mostly moved out, gone to Columbia for pre-law and civics. The government had stopped giving the Iannuccis money to keep Billy, but they kept him anyway. Mr. Iannucci had insisted. He needed Billy close at hand.

Billy worked a lot of different jobs. Some legit, some for Mr. Iannucci. He had a talent, Mr. Iannucci said. A skill with the gun and with the little switchblade he kept on him at all times. There was never any talk about sending him to college. The future lay ahead of Billy like a wide and empty field with a row of hay-bale targets.

Lucas was twenty-one. He lived on campus, in a frat house. Mr. Iannucci had started taking Lucas out more and more. Usually on the weekends, while Billy was working or practising his aim at the range, Mr. Iannucci would take Lucas in his car and drive them to the docks where he would meet a few of Mr. Iannucci’s friends and his business partners.

Lucas would come home around once a month with a garbage bag of laundry over his shoulder and an empty stomach. He had a spare key to Billy’s room, something Billy didn’t even have.

“I miss you,” Lucas admitted to him one night. “I hate leaving you all the time.”

Billy hated it too. He leaned into Lucas, let his forehead rest on Lucas’ shoulder, wrapped his arms around his waist, his weak and lovesick heart pounding for Lucas. Only for Lucas.

They were young and arrogant and in deep, deep trouble, although neither of them knew it.

Looking back on it later, Billy would not be able to explain why he didn’t lock the door behind him. When Lucas pulled them into his bedroom and kicked the door shut, Billy didn’t even think to check. It was a rare Sunday evening where the two of them were in the house together, just after dinner. All Billy wanted to do was touch Lucas, be touched by Lucas.

Billy didn’t even hear the footsteps in the hall, didn’t hear the knob turn and the latch click.

But he sure as hell heard Corrine’s scream when she found them both. Billy on his knees, her only son’s dick in his mouth.

After that, it was a blur. Billy could remember Mrs. Iannucci wailing like a banshee as she whipped him, the leather belt cutting red welts into his back, into his legs, even through his clothes, while he cowered on the floor. Beating him the way no one had beaten him for years. When one strike caught Billy around the back of his head, the buckle biting into his ear, it felt like a switch being flicked and Billy returned to the place he used to know, that place of humming static inside his head, like living in the centre of a snow globe.

He became aware that his body was moving, stumbling down the stairs, Mrs. Iannucci holding his arm, her nails digging into his skin. Lucas followed behind them and now Billy could hear his voice, the tone thick and pleading, although Billy could not make out the words.

She dragged them both into Mr. Iannucci’s study. He was there, standing in front of his big, polished desk, hands folded behind his back, the lines on his face etched deep with sorrow, looking like a man prepared to send his only child off to war.

Mrs. Iannucci shoved Billy to the ground. Billy caught himself on his hands. He pushed himself up into a kneeling position, and looked up into the barrel of a gun.

“Sit up straight,” Mr. Iannucci said.

It was a Glock, a nine millimeter, the very same gun Billy had been using for the last three years. Billy could take it apart and put it back together blindfolded. He could do it in less than a minute.

“Sit up, Bill,” Mr. Iannucci said.

The switch in his head flicked again and Billy crashed back into his body, hooked into the present by the gleam of gunmetal. He sat up, his legs trembling.

Mr. Iannucci pressed the gun against Billy’s lips. “Open your mouth,” he said.

Billy stared at him, eyes wide and wet. He could hear his own breathing, shallow and quick, wheezing through his tightening throat.

Mr. Iannucci pressed harder. The barrel clicked against Billy’s front teeth.

“Open,” Mr. Iannucci said, patient and almost kind.

No one spoke. Billy opened his mouth.

The gun slid inside, thick and hard enough to be painful, to stretch Billy’s jaw, tasting like bitter oil, like cold metal. The sight dragged against his soft palate until it hit the back of his throat. Billy gagged, eyes watering.

“Is this what you wanted?” Mr. Iannucci asked. “Is this what you were doing to my son?”

Billy’s teeth chattered against the metal. His whole body shook as if he were about to freeze to death.

“I took you into my home. I fed you. I clothed you. This is the thanks you give me?”

Billy’s breath whistled through his nose. He stared up at Mr. Iannucci. Shadows pooled into the hollows under his brows, darkness hiding everything but the wet gleam of his eyes.

A sob burbled in his throat, another jerked in his chest. _Please_ , Billy thought. _Please I don’t want to die please don’t kill me please I’m sorry please please I’m sorry._

Mr. Iannucci sighed. “You are what you are, I suppose,” he said. He glanced up. “Lucas. Come here. Stand here with me.”

Lucas approached them slowly. He stood beside his father. Billy turned his pleading gaze onto him, too terrified to hate this blatant show of weakness.

He could remember thinking, _Lucas will save me_.

He could remember thinking, _Lucas won’t let this happen._

_He would miss me._

“Take this,” Mr. Iannucci said.

Lucas didn’t look at Billy. He looked at his father. The same shadows that’d fallen on Mr. Iannucci had fallen on Lucas’ face, changing his boyish features into something harsher, changing him into someone Billy almost didn’t recognize.

Lucas took the gun from his father’s hand. The gun still in Billy’s mouth. Mr. Iannucci stepped away.

“You have a future with us, Lucas,” Mr. Iannucci said, voice as even and calm as ever, patient as a lecturer teaching a remedial class. “You are our only son. You are the only one who can take my place when I am gone. You were always meant for that. You told me you wanted that. Is that still true?”

Lucas nodded, his gaze fixed on his father’s face. His expression looked glazed, like he’d been put under a trance. Billy thought he saw the shine of wet tracks on his clean, smooth cheeks but he couldn’t be sure.

“Our fortune. This family. It’s all yours, waiting for you. Do you still want it?” Mr. Iannucci asked. Lucas swallowed and nodded again. “Good. Pull the trigger.”

Billy couldn’t scream, although he could feel it building in his chest. The sound only emerged as a whine, as the kind of sound a whipped puppy might make, a sound he hadn’t made in years. He could hear his breath huff around the object in his mouth, feel it bubble through his nostrils. His eyes stung and overflowed, tears falling hot down his cheeks.

Lucas stared at his father, eyes wide and round as quarters.

“Look at him, Lucas. Look at this mongrel. Is he worth giving up your future for? This snivelling little street rat? This son of a whore? He is nothing.” Mr. Iannucci stepped closer. Lucas twitched, the gun jerked in Billy’s mouth. “You have everything to lose. Everything we have given you, everything we will give you. Is he worth losing it all for?”

Lucas looked down at Billy, a cruel parody of their earlier position.

Lucas wouldn’t do this, Billy knew. He wouldn’t kill him. He would turn on his parents. He had the gun in his hand. He could just turn on them now, shoot them both dead, and Billy would help him clean it up. He’d learned a thing or two about disposing bodies. He would keep them both safe.

Billy tried to force himself to calm down. Tried to get his breathing back under control. This was a good thing, he told himself. If they put his life into Lucas’ hands, Billy knew he would be safe.

“Lucas,” Mr. Iannucci said softly. “Pull the trigger. Do it now or you are finished with us. Do you understand me? I will put you on the street. No more Columbia, no more soft bed, no more nice clothes. You will have nothing. If you insist on lying with the dogs, you can live with the fleas. Lucas.”

“Lucas, please,” Mrs. Iannucci said. “We love you. Please.”

 _Please_. Billy stared at Lucas.

Lucas flexed his grip on the gun. He grit his teeth, narrowed his eyes.

_Just turn around. He won’t have time to react. Turn around and pull the trigger. Please, Lucas._

“Son,” Mr. Iannucci said. “You’d lose your friends. Your home. Your family.” His voice trembled, just for the space of a second.

 _Please_ , Billy thought. _I love you too._

Lucas swallowed.

He pulled the trigger.

Billy heard the click reverberate through his entire body, felt it flinch through him like a wave crashing on the shore, washing away everything else. Billy sat still, frozen in that terrible moment between what happened and his body’s understanding. He was surely dead. He didn’t hear the bullet, didn’t even feel it, but he was dead and his body didn’t understand it yet, his heart hadn’t realised that it was time to stop.

The moment stretched, pulled taut, suspending him on a thinning thread. It was done. It was over. He felt it with every pump of his pulse through his body, shoving life through something that would only bleed it out.

Lucas stared down at him, pale eyes blank and shining, mouth thin and lips white. His nostrils flared with an exhale.

Mr. Iannucci stepped forward. He eased the gun from Lucas’ hand, from Billy’s mouth. Billy drew in a breath, feeling like a thief of time. And then he pulled in another, chest jumping with the gasp. He was trapped in that moment but its grip was easing, things inside shifting like the first few flakes of snow down the side of a mountain, the overture to the avalanche that would bury a town. His body finally caught on that it would continue breathing, beating and he understood what had just happened.

Empty. The chamber had been empty.

“Go to your room, Bill,” Mr. Iannucci said, not unkindly.

Billy stood like a newborn foal on skinny, trembling legs. Mrs. Iannucci took his arm in a gentle grip and guided him from the room. Billy didn’t look back although he could feel a stare land on him, like a pebble thrown at the space between his shoulder blades.

Lucas’ mother walked behind Billy as they both made their way up the stairs, through the hallway, until he was in his room. She closed the door behind him and he heard the jangle of keys, the rattle of a lock. His breath seized in his throat, muscles trembling. He was so, so tired of being locked away. Part of him wanted to throw himself against the door, to howl and scream the way he used to, beat at it with his fists, his feet. This time, he was big enough that it might even make a difference. His body thrummed with the adrenaline, with the unspent energy.

He tried to escape. The door was locked but he had a window. He packed his backpack with clothes, with his discman, a few books, and the small amount of money he’d kept hidden under his mattress. He grabbed the edge of his windowsill and pulled, mind whirring with half-formed plans. It stuck fast. Billy pulled again, to no affect.

They’d nailed it shut.

Billy sat down on the edge of his bed and breathed out into his cupped hands. He looked at his door and thought again about trying to break it down, but the thought of Mr. Iannucci and his gun stopped him dead in his tracks. His mouth still tasted like metal.

The sun began to set, the weak October light fading into blue shadows. Billy watched them stretch across the scratched and dusty surface of his floor and tried to bully his thoughts into something useful. But there was nothing to think about.

He’d let himself get soft. He’d let himself get fooled. Nothing ever came without strings and tragic little orphan boys didn’t get to go to loving homes. They didn’t get happily ever afters. They got sent into cages, locked rooms.

Time passed. Billy didn’t check to see how much. The adrenaline ebbed and the twanging tension loosened its hold on his limbs. He sagged back onto his mattress, limp, and fell into a doze.

 He flinched awake at the sound of a door shutting with a quiet click.

“It’s me,” Lucas whispered.

He crawled into bed beside Billy. Billy rolled over to face the wall.

Lucas said nothing at first. Billy could feel his breath stir the small hairs on the back of his neck, feel his chest shift with each exhale. Billy kept quiet. He could still taste metal, even now.

Finally, quietly, Lucas began to speak.

“They’re not gonna kick you out. I told them about that guy in your group home, the one who molested you. They know you’re just sick so they won’t kick you out. But my mom said she’s gonna make you go to church with her. Dad said he was gonna start putting you to real work, now. He said you need the discipline.” As he spoke, he wrapped his arms slowly, carefully around Billy’s waist, pressed the flat of his hand over Billy’s stomach.

Billy didn’t move.

 “I’m sorry.” Lucas breathed the words over the back of Billy’s neck, just above his collar, above the tattoo he kept hidden. “I should’ve locked the door. I don’t know why I didn’t. I just didn’t think about it. It was stupid. I’m sorry. I knew it wasn’t loaded. You know that, don’t you? I wouldn’t— I would never.” He pressed his forehead against Billy’s back. “I knew it wasn’t loaded. I knew it. I promise I knew it. You trust me, don’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Jun/ssealdog for beta'ing this as well! Updates will resume on Monday. 
> 
> nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucas Iannucci won't kill Billy in a hurry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta, Jun/ssealdog. Beta'ing isn't easy but he makes it look easy so thank you Jun. 
> 
> And many many sincere thank yous to everyone who has left a comment or reblogged my posts. I read every single tag and comment and they all mean so much to me. :"|
> 
> There's some canon-typical violence in this chapter and a brief allusion to child molestation at the top.

What is a wolf-mother, really, than an absence, a lack, a metaphor for what the orphaned child is missing? A wolf-mother is teeth and claws. A wolf-mother is a cold bed. A wolf-mother is the dark closet they locked you into again because you can’t play nice. A wolf-mother is what keeps you from being good. A wolf-mother is the scream that cracks in your throat.

 _Don’t be afraid._ The sour stench of alcohol-soaked breath against your cheek, your small body pinned under a heavy weight. The wolf-mother comes to you after, when the pain keeps you from sleeping.

A wolf-mother knows that no one will ever understand you. A wolf-mother is the shadow under your door, the creak of a floorboard under an adult man’s weight. A scar. A reminder of who you were, who you will never be, ever again.

 _You could be useful_. A three-piece suit, dark grey, wool blend, and a true-blue tie. A soft hand on your chin, manicured nails pressing—not gentle, but not painful—into your skin. Next, he’ll put a gun in your hands and point you like a weapon at a target. His good little killer. You have no choice in the matter. If you had been given one, would you have chosen something else?

A wolf-mother teaches you to bite, to scratch, to howl and fight.

Mr. Iannucci and his very nice suits and his very nice son with his very soft hands. A good boy with a silver spoon under his pink tongue, not enough steel in him for the position his father has been grooming him for, but that’s why he has you. With your teeth of lead and your claws of steel. You’ll be his weapon. It’s not even that bad, is it? If it’s for Mr. Iannucci’s son. You’d do a lot of things for him.

_You’re so pretty. You’re like a girl. Come here, Billy. Come here. Let me —._

Silly boy. You thought he loved you.

A wolf-mother doesn’t love you. She won’t teach you to love yourself. But she’ll teach you how to survive. To look out for yourself above everyone else. She’ll teach you to be strong.

_I’m gonna make you mine._

You want to give her your heart. You want her to consume it, this last weakness, this last crack in your armour through which anyone can find your soft, beating core.

But that’s not how it works. You can’t and she won’t. 

* * *

It felt like a dream. Laying in the dark so thick it felt like it could smother him, feeling his body move, the almost weightless feeling of being in flight. The car shaking under him, around him, a gentle vibration that could’ve been soothing under different circumstances. Curled up on his side, knees tucked close to his chest, feeling the pain stab and pulse from his wounded side with every bump in the road.

Time slid past. It was hard to tell how much. Billy started to see things moving in the dark, tricks his eyes were playing on him. He shivered with cold, cheeks damp and sticky, eyes stinging. His arm went numb.

He was probably going to die soon.

He’d always known he’d come to an unpleasant end. The kind of life he’d been leading begged for it. He wasn’t rich enough or powerful enough to protect himself from all the bad karma he’d accumulated over years and years of being on the other end of this situation. Being in the front seat, listening to the thumping of desperate hands in the sealed trunk of a car, muffled screams and curses. He wouldn’t give the Lucas the satisfaction of hearing him get that desperate. He’d die first.

But he’d make them earn it. He wouldn’t go quietly, stoically. He wriggled a little, flexed his cold, numb fingers, tried to push more circulation into his limbs. He’d need his hands, whatever came next.

The car eventually slowed, its engine purring into Billy’s ear. He listened to Wesley’s voice—the guy could never shut up—although he could barely make out the words. He was reading off numbers, trying to find the address maybe.

“All these places look the same,” Wesley complained, his voice rising.

If Lucas replied, it was too quiet for Billy to hear. He hadn’t been talking much.

The car eventually stopped. Billy heard doors slamming, felt the vehicle lurch under a sudden absence of weight as they climbed out. He heard boots on the ground, heard voices besides Wesley’s endless chatter. He strained to hear what they were saying but he could barely hear anything over his own wheezing breath, the sound of blood like constant thunder in his ears.

Stay calm, he told himself firmly, flexing his fingers. Stay focused. There wouldn’t be a lot of opportunities coming up. He had to pay attention.

A whine rose somewhere deep within, the sound like the whimper of a small child. Or a dog.

 _I don’t want to die_ , it said. Billy clenched his teeth against his gag and ignored it.

 _Please_ , a voice like a sob, pushing against Billy’s throat, pressure against the back of his eyes. _Please. Please. I don’t want to die._

The same begging he’d heard a dozen times from a dozen different mouths. He never thought it would try to fight its way out of him, never thought he’d be the guy to snivel like a beaten pup.

He wouldn’t. He really would die first. Nobody would get the satisfaction of hearing him like that ever again. He shoved it all down, buried it as deep as he could in the shattered ruin of his heart and his soul.

Some of those guys had cried like babies. One had screamed for his mother. Billy had felt sick to hear it, even then.

The trunk opened, the darkness cracking like a split egg. Light burned. Billy turned away, his eyes shutting on instinct just a second too late. Hands reached for him, dragged him from the damp warmth of the trunk and into the night.

It was still raining. Billy felt it on his face for a second before someone shoved a pillowcase over his head. They hauled him up and the world tilted as he was lifted off the ground and thrown over a man’s solid shoulder, knocking a huff of breath from his mouth and a fresh stab of pain from his bleeding side. Billy felt the sandals he’d slipped on before—what felt like years ago—fall off his feet, hit the ground below with a splash.

Time blurred. They took Billy inside somewhere. He heard voices—Wesley’s as usual—but Billy felt as if his head had been dunked under water. Everything was muffled. Wesley sounded pleased, giddy as a kid with an ice cream cake all to himself. Billy’s stomach churned as blood rushed to his head. He bit down on his gag and tried very hard not to throw up into the case.

He came back to himself when his body hit the cold ground.

“He’s lookin’ rough,” Wesley said over the sound of footsteps. Billy heard the squeak of old metal—an industrial door swinging shut maybe? He could see pinpricks of light through the fabric covering his face.

“He’s got blood all over him.” Hands reached for the soaked tank-top on Billy’s stomach and peeled it back. Billy flinched and tried to wriggle away but his limbs were cold and numb. “Looks like he busted open some stitches. Oooh, nice tattoos, Bill. Are these new?”

Wesley put his hands on Billy’s stomach, over his chest, touching him without care, tracing the familiar pattern of black blooms. Billy felt sick.

“Flowers, huh,” he murmured. “Pretty. What other tattoos have you gotten?” Fingers slid under the waistband of Billy’s shorts. His throat clenched.

He tightened his trembling jaw, teeth digging into his gag. He knew what Wesley wanted and he’d be damned if he gave it to him. He wouldn’t whimper. He wouldn’t make a sound. Breath whistled from his nostrils.

“Fuck off, Wesley.” The pawing hands vanished and Billy breathed out. He heard a scuffle of feet on concrete, a shift of fabric, and the sound of a hand hitting flesh. “Go be a creep somewhere else.”

“Hey!” Wesley, sounding pissed. “You said I could—!”

“Later,” Lucas said. “Right now the adults are talking.” Metal hinges squealed and the door swung shut again. Billy heard Wesley’s muffled cursing. He slumped back onto the ground, a breath of relief warming his gag.

He heard Lucas sigh and then sniff.

“I fuckin’ hate the west coast,” he said. “All the rain, all the damp. It’s like living in a giant cave but without the charm. I’ve been here for seven days and it’s rained for, like, ten of them. I can’t believe you came out all this way.” The drag and click of his heels against the floor as he drew close. “Didn’t even leave the country. Didn’t even change your fucking name. You really must’ve thought I’d died. Huh, Billy?”

A hand gripped Billy’s hair through the pillowcase and yanked him upright. The fabric snapped free and Billy blinked, eyes watering, as he was assaulted once more with bright light. It took a moment for his vision to adjust. When it did, he saw Lucas standing over him, the pillowcase clenched in his fist.

He’d ditched his coat and jacket, stripped down to his shirt, tie hanging like a blue tongue around his shoulders.

“I don’t blame you,” Lucas went on. “The way you left me strung up in that mess… Framing me for Uncle Sal’s hit, turning half my fucking crew against me, including my psycho cousin. And then selling me out to the Irish. I would’ve thought I was a goner, too.” He crouched until he was level with Billy. “But I’ve been thinking about it over the last two years. And do you know what I keep coming back to? The question I just can’t figure out?” Lucas huffed, reached out and pulled the gag from Billy’s mouth. “Why didn’t you just shoot me yourself, Billy?” he asked as Billy coughed.

Billy sat back against the wall, chest heaving as he tried to control the spasms of his throat. He tried to take in the details of his room, tried to see if there was anything within reach that might serve him, but there wasn’t much. It was an empty, cold room and Lucas stood before him like a vengeful god, the whites of his eyes streaked with red, burning with it.

“Boy, you have lost a lot of blood, haven’t you.” Lucas tapped the ridge of Billy’s cheek with one finger. “Billy. Billy? Pay attention to me, sweetheart.”

Billy tried. He squinted at Lucas. The single industrial light bulb hanging from the ceiling created halos, spikes of white behind Lucas’ head. Lucas’ gaze swept over Billy. He reached out and pulled the tank-top away from Billy’s stomach, peeling it from his damp skin. A chill seeped through the thin fabric of his clothes.

Frank’s clothes, he realised. He’d put on one of Frank’s shirts and a pair of his black gym shorts, cinched tight around the waist, that morning. It felt like it’d been years, like a choice he’d made in a past life. Waking up in Frank’s bed, with Frank’s arm around him, Frank’s face buried in his neck, clinging to him like he was afraid Billy would’ve tried to leave during the night.

Billy’s vision blurred. His head swam, throat tightening.

“You gonna throw up on me?” Lucas gave him a half-smile. “Try to keep it together, tough guy.” He took each strap in his hands and pulled the shirt apart, ripping it down the centre. Billy flinched at the sound, breathing hard as Lucas flung the scraps of fabric away.

Lucas let out a low whistle. “Boy, look at you. You really went out and did it. Got yourself some nice tattoos.” He stared at Billy’s stomach and chest, his hands dangling between his knees. He looked up, met Billy’s gaze. “They _are_ pretty,” he said. He leaned forward. Billy’s breath caught. It was a struggle not to shrink away as Lucas wrapped his hand around the back of Billy’s neck.

“Do you still have the old stick-and-poke?” Lucas asked quietly, his fingers brushing over Billy’s chilled skin. “Do you remember when we did them?”

Billy stared at him, jaw tight.

“Day after you got out from prison,” Lucas said. “Your second night with us. I remember we could hear my mom and dad watching TV downstairs. Leno, I think. I’d only done it a handful of times before but you told me you wanted me to give you one. I was a little touched by that.” Lucas smiled briefly.

Billy remembered it. Laying on his stomach on Lucas’ bed, his face buried in the pillow while Lucas picked and picked at his skin. He didn’t realise how painful a tattoo so close to the bone would be but once Lucas started, Billy was determined to see it through. Lucas’ voice in his ear, telling him he was _almost done, Billy, just hold still_ …

“God.” Lucas laughed softly, his hand sliding up the back of Billy’s neck, to cup his skull. “It’s crazy thinking back on that now. You used to really trust me.” His fingers dug into Billy’s hair, bending him back, baring his throat. “What happened to that?” Lucas asked, his smile fading.

Billy swallowed and said nothing.

Lucas shook him. “Answer me,” he said.

“I got nothin’ to say to you,” Billy said.

Lucas’ grip in his hair tightened, pulling tears to the corners of Billy’s eyes.

“Ten years,” Lucas said. “Ten fucking years. Almost a third of our lives. You were part of my family. You slept in my house. We fed you and clothed you. And you’re telling me you got nothing to say to me?” He slammed Billy’s head against the wall. “You left me for dead, you little bitch! You ruined my life! So, dig deep, Billy, ‘cause I’ve been waiting two years to hear what you have to say for yourself. I’m all fuckin’ ears.”

Billy grit his teeth as Lucas pulled hard on his hair, knocking his head against the concrete wall. He blinked tears from his eyes and tried to get his strobing vision to focus.

“Say something, goddammit,” Lucas snapped, giving him a shake. “We had a good life, you and me. You were family!”

A laugh scraped its way out of Billy’s throat. “Family?”  He met Lucas’ outrage with a tight smile. “You think I’m stupid, Lucas? I wasn’t family to you. You never loved me.”

Lucas’ face blanched like a skinned potato. It gave Billy a small taste of satisfaction in what was almost certainly going to be his last few moments of relative peace. He tried to savour it.

“That’s…” Lucas’ throat worked and Billy watched as his internal conflict played out on his features; Lucas’ desperation to keep them both buried in his closet going against his need to argue with Billy.

Poor, stupid Lucas. Billy almost felt sorry for him.

“We took you in,” Lucas said, orienting himself around his righteous outrage. “We gave you—!”

Billy kicked him, a weak attempt, hobbled by his sluggish limbs, but he felt with satisfaction when his flat, bare foot made contact with Lucas’ calf, knocking him back a half-step.

“ _I was your pet_ ,” Billy snarled. “I was your fuckin’ dog. What did you expect from me, Lucas? You put a fucking gun in my mouth—!”

Lucas turned red. “That wasn’t—!” he started but got no further as Billy tried to kick him again.

Lucas caught him, wrapped his arm around Billy’s knees and yanked him to the ground. Billy’s head hit the floor with a thump. Stars swerved in his vision like drunk glow bugs.

“You would’ve killed me!” This wasn’t smart, Billy knew it wasn’t smart, but the knowledge didn’t get any further than that. His body shook as he struggled against Lucas, bare back digging into the cold floor, panic ringing like a bell in his head, behind his ribs. “You pulled that trigger and killed me for them! For your fucking house! Your fucking money!”

Lucas lay on top of him, his brick red face inches from Billy’s, sticking his chin out like he wanted Billy to take a swing and Billy would’ve paid any amount of money to take the opportunity.

“I knew it wasn’t loaded!” Spittle flecked at the corners of Lucas’ lips. “I knew—!”

Billy swung his head up, his forehead making contact with the bridge of Lucas’ nose with a sickening crunch. Lucas stumbled to his feet with a cry of pain, his hands flying to his face. Blood poured from his nose like water from a faucet, dripping down his lips and chin. He narrowed his eyes at Billy, mouth gaping.

“You’re a fucking monster,” Lucas gasped.

“Just what you made me, Luc,” Billy said, baring his teeth.

Lucas stalked forward, hands dropping away from his blood-streaked face, red fingers reaching for Billy’s neck as he sank back to his knees. “You’re—.”

The building trembled, a sound like thunder, like an explosion crashing somewhere on the floors above. Lucas looked up, a drop of blood landing on Billy’s chin with the movement.

“What—?” Lucas tried before his voice thickened. He coughed, a mist of red spraying from his lips.

Upstairs came the sound of people shouting, a rumble of what sounded like an engine, and boots on the ground. And then the firework pop of guns.

Lucas staggered to his feet. A sound of running footsteps approached them from down the hall. A moment later Wesley appeared in the open doorway, his face flushed pink and his eyes wide and wild.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said.

“Tell me outside,” Lucas said and the door swung shut behind him. Billy heard their voices fading as they walked away, leaving him half-naked, bound and shivering on the floor. But he was alive.

Billy clenched his rattling teeth together and stared at the ceiling, as if he could see through the concrete and find out what the fuck was happening. His heart thudded against his shaking chest, a warmth growing inside of him like weeds pushing their way through a cracked driveway. He tried to crush it down before it could overwhelm him.

Hope was worthless. Hope wouldn’t get him out of here. He needed to be smart.

He curled his legs up, rolled over onto his side, and started wriggling his bound arms, trying to get them around and over his legs. As his forearms brushed over his thighs, he felt something push loose from his pocket and heard it clatter to the ground. He froze for a half-second, listening to the sounds of mayhem coming from upstairs.

His phone. He’d forgotten he still had it.

He shook himself out of the moment and resumed struggling until he had his bound wrists in front of him. He brought them up to his mouth, took the line of the zip tie between his teeth and pulled it taut. He sat up, brought his bound hands down sharply against his knees, snapping the plastic, freeing himself.

He stood up, swayed a little on unsteady legs, clutched his still-bleeding side with one cold hand and staggered for the exit. The door was stuck but it wasn’t locked. It swung open with a little force.

The hall outside was poorly lit, lights flickering in wire cages strung up from the ceiling. There was a slumped body on the floor, a smear of blood leading from to wall to its crumpled form. Billy’s jaw creaked as he walked gingerly forward, the cut in his leg adding its two cents to the proceedings. Curiously, he began to feel warm and clammy, sweat beading on his forehead and prickling his neck and chest.

The sounds upstairs grew quiet. Billy knelt down by the body and searched through the clothes for a weapon. He had his hand on a pistol when he heard footsteps. He stood up, gun in hand.

Kitty’s eyes widened. “Easy, tiger,” she said, raising one hand from the assault rifle in her arms, a conciliatory gesture that couldn’t find purchase in Billy’s mind.

“You look awful,” she said. She took a step closer to him. There was a burst of automatic weapon’s fire upstairs, a stutter that cut off abruptly.

Billy breathed out and flexed his grip on his pistol. Sweat dripped down his brow.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, coming closer. “You must be freezing.”

The back of Billy’s calf hit the body he’d recently looted.

“You can put down the gun, pretty boy,” she said. He grit his teeth so tight he thought they would crack in his mouth. “We didn’t come out here just for the fun of it.”

He stared at her. A tremor worked its way down his arm, to his index finger, wrapped around the trigger.

“We came here for you, Beaut. They rest of the cavalry’s waiting for you upstairs,” she said.

A bellow rumbled through the room above, a shredded voice that came from an animal throat.

There was no civilization in the sound, no hint of something tamed. A war cry from the mouth of a monster. It raised the hair on the back of his arms. Billy’s arms grew slack, the pistol drooping in his hands.

Kitty looked like she was trying not to laugh. “The Beast is waiting for you,” she said.

* * *

Blood loss and shock set in, oozed their poisons inside, leaving Billy feeling blind and dumb, as if he were wearing his own body like an ill-fitting suit.

Kitty took him upstairs, to the ground floor of the abandoned building they’d brought him to. Lucas had dragged him out to the edge of town, to a place where cars sat as empty and broken as peanut shells on the floor of a dive bar. Smoke curled from the half-open industrial door. There was a smell of soot and blood, and the shape of a man just visible through the haze. Or what Billy assumed was a man, smoke closing around the figure like fingers in a loose fist as it cut down a poor soul with a swing of an axe, another war bellow shaking loose.

Billy hadn’t realised he’d stopped to watch until Kitty tugged his arm. They moved on.

She took him to a van where a woman with a medical kit waited for them. His memory fuzzed out at this point, but he could recall the way she’d asked him questions as she cleaned and closed his wound. He couldn’t remember if he said anything in response. At one point, she chuckled, so maybe he’d said something clever. He liked to think so.

She put a granola bar in his hand and told him to eat. She must’ve left after that because he didn’t recall seeing her again. He remembered getting two bites in before his vision glazed and split and he curled up on the floor of the van and fell asleep.

He didn’t quite dream but his mind went on working. Thoughts staggered out of the fog between his ears, tried to articulate themselves but they were drunk and dying. He’d fallen into some kind of alternate reality, they said. There was too much that’d changed. He had to sleep. He would wake up where he was supposed to be.

To Frank’s room, to his bed, with Frank at his back, wrapped around him like ivy. Breath puffing at the nape of his neck, eyelashes tickling his skin, lips warm against him. He’d wake up soon, warm and safe. Home again.

He heard voices coming from somewhere else and that was the best his mind could tell him. He heard footsteps, the sound of boots on soft ground.

He heard a door open, felt the world around him heave and tremble. He tasted blood in the air. He couldn’t bring himself to do much beyond stir.

A hand cupped his face, a thumb brushed his cheek.

“Sorry,” someone said, rough and exhausted.

He was lifted off the ground, felt a pair of arms wrap around him and hold him close. Billy’s nose filled with the scent of smoke and blood, always blood. He clung to awareness with a thinning thread, heard a woman’s voice saying something about the help someone needed, but it was a distant concern. A pull of current towards a shore he didn’t want to touch down on. He curled away from it, sighed heavily, and pushed himself further into the black waters of unconsciousness.

* * *

Billy heard the sound of rushing water. And then he woke up.

He stared at the blue light on an unfamiliar ceiling, pushed his hands against the comforter that’d been tucked up to his shoulders. It felt scratchy, synthetic. He looked around. There was a bedside table with a lamp, a notepad, a small binder, and a cell plugged into the wall. Billy rolled over and reached for his phone.

It was late enough at night to be considered very early in the morning. The sky beyond the drawn curtains had turned a steel blue-grey, the precursor to a proper dawn. Billy was alone in bed, in what was almost definitely a cheap hotel room.

There was someone in the bathroom, taking a shower. Billy sat up, wincing at the throb of pain. He rubbed his side, felt the crinkle of a stick-on bandage, and tried to piece together what had happened.

It returned slowly, unpacking like luggage after a long trip away from home. Alias airing his dirty laundry. Frank’s anger. The ensuing argument. The fire. Lola in the empty house. Frank coming for him.

_Trust me._

Billy closed his eyes, exhaustion as thick and warm as smoke coming from within, coaxing him back to the firm mattress, to rest his head on the stiff pillows and try to sleep the rest of whatever this was off. Sleep until the pain went away.

The hiss of water died, cut off by a thump of plumbing. Billy heard it gurgle down a drain, followed by a quiet sigh.

He opened his eyes. A spike of pain shot from his jaw to his temple. He forced himself to relax, breathed out. He couldn’t sleep now. He turned his phone screen to the bedside table, faint blue-white light bringing definition to the objects there.

The binder, the notepad, the things he’d noticed before. There was a granola bar under the lamp. He considered it for a moment but his hand twitched, flicking light further afield, until he caught a gleam of something familiar.

The black, worn handle of his switchblade.

He slipped out of bed, picked it up with one hand, and stalked on bare, silent feet towards the bathroom.

Light shone from the crack under the door, a white line across beige carpet. Billy heard the quiet click of uncapping bottles, the clink of something against porcelain. He reached for the handle and turned it slowly. He stepped inside.

Frank faced the mirror, holding a white tube in his hand, while he worked something clear and medicinal smelling into a cut on his forearm. Billy’s breath tripped in his chest as he took him in.

A myriad of bruises dotted Frank’s back, his shoulders, and his arms. Raw, red scrapes and shiny burns.

Billy could just make out Frank’s expression through the fogged mirror: the severe pull of his brows, the flat line of his lips, the downward cast to his eyes.

He looked up. Their gazes met through their reflections. Frank turned.

Billy struck.

Frank’s breath left his mouth in a huff of air as he slammed against the mirror, Billy’s arm braced against his neck, pressing him tight against the sink. The tip of Billy’s knife dug into the soft skin under his chin. A mere half-inch separating the pulse of an artery from the prick of a blade. Frank’s life from Billy’s wrath.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t,” Billy said.

Frank could fight, Billy knew. He looked bad—tenderized by recent violence—but Billy wasn’t doing any better. His arms were trembling with the force he tried to push into them, with the effort of keeping Frank pinned. Frank could probably get Billy off of him before Billy could cut. He could at least try.

Frank tipped his head back slowly, baring his throat.

Billy’s nostrils flared with his exhale. “You son of a bitch,” he said. “You backstabbing motherfucker. _Tell me why I shouldn’t_.” To Billy’s humiliation, his voice had started to shake.

“Anything I tell you, Bill, is gonna sound like an excuse,” Frank said.

“You told me you wanted me,” Billy said. The remote coldness in Frank’s gaze began to thaw. “You said you liked me.” Billy hated the way he sounded in that moment. He took comfort in the fact that there was no one else around to hear him. “You lied to me.”

“No,” Frank said.

Billy went on as if Frank hadn’t spoken. “What I don’t understand is why,” he said. “Why lie to me? What did you get out of it? I mean, were you tryin’ to groom me? Gonna make me kill for you like the Iannuccis did?” he asked. Frank said nothing. He watched Billy. “What did you want from me?”

That look again, chocolate brown eyes warm and sad.

“I wanted you, Bill,” Frank said.

Billy knocked him against the mirror. “Stop,” he said through his teeth. “Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Frank said.

Billy spoke over him. “Did you know Lucas was after me? Was that it? Were you hoping to cash me in? Why not do it sooner? Why draw things out? Why did you make me think I could trust you? Did it make you feel good? Did you get some sick pleasure in making me— in watching me—?” Heat rose to Billy’s face, bile rose in his throat. He could feel the spines of his temper under his skin, riding the tide of adrenaline and shock, shaking his limbs like branches in a storm.

He tried to cling to his anger but it was too much. It twisted and shifted in his grip because it wasn’t alone, because it carried something else inside of it.

“Why did you give me up?” Billy’s voice cracked. To his horror, his eyes stung, brimming.

Frank’s eyes blazed. “I didn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Billy pleaded.

“I didn’t. Bill, I didn’t. I didn’t give you up. I wasn’t ever gonna let them take you from me, you understand me?”

“You did,” Billy said. He flinched at the feel of hands on his hips, a light touch of warmth.

“They got me after the fire,” Frank said. “I collapsed. Wesley dragged me out.”

Billy’s lips twisted but he said nothing. Frank took the opening and went on. “They’d disarmed me. They had a gun on me. I didn’t have a lot of options.”

“I can think of one,” Billy said.

“Yeah,” Frank said softly. “I could’ve let them torture the info out of me. I know it. But what good would that’ve done either of us? I might’ve broken and given you up or they might’ve killed me before they brought me to that point. Either way, I wouldn’t have been in any position to help you.”

“You could’ve bought me time,” Billy said. “I could’ve fled the city.”

“They would’ve followed,” Frank said. “Besides—” He leaned a scant inch forward. Billy adjusted the angle of his knife. “They had my phone. If you’d gotten what looked like a call from me, even days later, would you have ignored it?”

Billy pressed his lips together. “Sure,” he said, but he couldn’t even make himself believe it.

Another soft look. Frank brushed his thumb over Billy’s hip.

“Lucas brought his people with him. A whole crew. Even if I could’ve disarmed Wesley, killed him, _and_ Lucas, _and_ the guys they brought with them, the rest of his people would still be out there. They would’ve still come for you,” Frank said. “I had to get them all at once. Burn the nest. I called you because I knew he’d take you back to whatever headquarters he’d set up for himself. I would follow on their heels.” He swayed forward, his nose bumping against Billy’s. “It was too personal for Lucas. He wanted to draw it out. I knew he wasn’t gonna kill you in a hurry. I got to him as quickly as I could. I didn’t want him to touch you but I didn’t have a choice. I had to kill them all and bring you home. And I did.”

Billy recalled the shape of what might’ve been a man in the stinging, grey-black haze of smoke. The roar of some great creature from before civilization.

“I hated it. I hated watching them take you. I would’ve done anything to keep you safe. I still would. If you want to kill me, you can,” Frank said, simple as that. “I don’t want to die but I knew this could be how things ended. I know that I hurt you.” He raised his hand slowly, brought it to Billy’s face. “I’m sorry, Billy. I made a choice. I can’t say I regret it, because you’re here and you’re safe and they’re gone for good… but I do regret hurting you. I regret letting you think even for a second that I didn’t want you. That I didn’t… didn’t care about you. I never wanted that. If killing me is the only thing that’ll make this right, then… I guess I can make peace with that.”

Billy held his gaze, breathing hard. “You’d die for me?” he asked.

Frank met him without flinching. “I would,” he said.

Billy adjusted his damp grip on the handle of his blade—a moment of weakness, an opening Frank could take if he had the mind to. He didn’t and Billy realised Frank was serious and he could do it. He could end this, leave Frank to bleed out, get his shit and get out of there. Leave it all behind. Billy clutched his anger like a child with a security blanket, trying to stay warm. Just a twist of his wrist is all it would take. He wouldn’t even have to press very hard. And Frank would let him.

“I don’t believe you,” Billy said. Frank drew his thumb down Billy’s damp cheek. “You never wanted me. You never…” His voice collapsed, too weak to sustain itself. Frank closed his other hand around Billy’s, steadying it where it held the knife against his throat.

“I meant every word I said to you,” Frank said. “I’ll give you anything you ask for. Anything you want. Every cent I’ve got in my account. Whatever earthly possessions I’ve got left. My dog. Even my life, if you want it. Whatever it takes. I didn’t do right by you, Billy. I tried but I failed. I’m sorry.”

It couldn’t be true. Frank was just like Lucas, his empty words about an empty chamber. Saying what he needed to in order to keep Billy sweet, tamed and on his leash. Billy was tired of being taken for the same ride over and over. This time he would put a stop to it. This time he would bite back. He pressed the knife in, watched blood bead in the dip of flesh.

Frank kept his gaze locked on Billy. He wouldn’t even blink. He kept his hand, soft and warm, over Billy’s.

Billy sucked in a breath like a gasp. The knife clattered to the ground. He staggered backwards, ground the heels of his hands into the hollows of his eyes. Frank caught him before he could get very far, put his arms around him, hushed him. Billy put up a weak struggle but his heart wasn’t in it. His heart wasn’t in much of anything, lurching from one beat to the next.

To Billy’s dull amazement, he really did trust Frank. Even then.

Billy was too tired to keep track of his own body’s actions anymore. His arms wrapped around Frank’s neck of their own will. He buried his face in Frank’s neck, leaned his weight into him. Frank took it and carried him over the threshold, back to bed.

Billy didn’t bother to resist as Frank tucked himself against his uninjured side. He wrapped his arm around Billy’s waist, splayed his hand over the bandage on his stomach. He nuzzled into the space between Billy’s neck and shoulder, kissed him again and again, feather-light over his bounding pulse.

“They’re not gonna hurt you anymore,” Frank said. “I took care of ‘em, just like I said I would. Down to the last man.”

Billy turned onto his side and curled into Frank’s embrace. “That doesn’t mean I forgive you,” he said.

“I know. I know.” Frank placed a gentle kiss on Billy’s brow. “Give me time and I’ll make it up to you. If you’ll let me. No matter how long it takes, I’ll make it up to you.”

It felt like a big ask and Billy had used up every scrap of energy he could muster to hold Frank against the mirror, at the tip of his mercy. Frank sounded like he was working around the word ‘forever’, a concept that felt too heavy to hold in the feather-light web of Billy’s thoughts. He didn’t try; just let it sink into his mind, his eyelids listing.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” Frank said, brushing the hair back from his forehead.

“This isn’t finished,” Billy said, voice thick and fading.

“Okay,” Frank said.

“I’m gonna fight you when I wake up.”

“Okay.” Frank sounded amused.

Billy’s breathing evened out, eyelids slipping shut, his grip on consciousness loosening. Frank stroked his hair, running his thumb across the small lines at the corner of his eye.

Wrapped up warm in Frank’s arms, Billy sighed and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week is the final chapter. See you then!
> 
> nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trouble with updating on a Monday is that I'm pretty darn brain dead. It's the last chapter but I'm not sure what to say. Thank you to Jun/ssealdog for betaing this chapter and for betaing every chapter that came before it. What a lot of words I shoveled onto you! 
> 
> This chapter's NSFW.

Billy slept for most of the day, almost missing the sun completely. He woke up in the evening, feeling sore and hung-over, which didn’t seem fair. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had anything alcoholic to drink.

Frank was there, just as he’d said he would be. Billy slurred a few insults upon waking, staggered a handful of steps from the bed before coming to a rest at the little table with its little kettle, and tried to pick a fight while Frank ushered him into a seat and ordered them a pizza. Billy chewed through the granola bar Frank handed him and shored up his strength. He called Frank a few more ugly things until his head started to feel like it was attached to his body once more, and then used his newfound energy to get creative with it. He quieted down only when their pizza arrived and viciously ate his way through half a pepperoni pizza while Frank made calls.

“I’m not finished with you,” Billy said. The trajectory of his energy had crested and he was on his peak. He could see the slope of his carb crash less than an hour away, but for now he was on a high, his head clear, or as clear as he could hope it to be.

“Okay.” Frank kissed the top of his head and grabbed a slice from the open box. Billy scowled but didn’t pull away.

“Who were you talkin’ to?” he asked.

Kitty—or Trish, apparently. She had Lola. She had also overseen Lucas’ transportation from the warehouse to Micro’s clutches.

Billy’s chewing slowed. “His body?” he asked.

Frank wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and shook his head.

“Micro’s got a few questions for him,” he said.

Billy’s hand curled into a fist on top of the table. He cut a glance to the open door of the bathroom, where he’d left his knife.

“You said you took care of it,” Billy said.

Frank licked a spot of sauce from his ring finger. “I did,” he said. “And I will. Once Micro’s finished with him, he’s coming straight to you and you can decide what we do with him.” Frank looked up at him. “I figured you might want that.”

Billy swallowed. This felt primal too, like all of Frank’s displays. Bringing a bested enemy to his door like an offering. Billy tossed his crust back into the nearly empty box, where it made friends with his other discards.

“I’ve thought of some new things I’d like to call you,” he said. Frank smiled and finished his slice.

Billy pulled out every curse word he could think of, even the older ones, the blasphemes that would’ve earned him rosary. Frank walked him until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. He sat on the mattress, still spouting insults, while Frank nudged him down and climbed on top. Frank kissed Billy’s throat, his chest, pulled at the clean t-shirt they’d found for him with careful hands, revealing bare skin. He touched Billy with something approaching reverence while Billy’s voice thinned down to a thread, Frank’s hands warm and then hot on his stomach, his hips, his thighs as he kissed down his chest. Billy arched off the bed as Frank peeled his sweat pants off, called him a bastard while Frank wrapped his hand around Billy’s dick.

He tried to keep up the litany of verbal abuse as Frank worked his way down to his stomach, to the v-dip of his pelvis, lips and tongue dragging on tender skin. Bruises littered Frank’s own skin, just visible in the spaces between his tattoos. Colourful reminders of the things he’d done to Billy’s enemies, because they’d stood between him and Billy.

Billy ran his hands down the curved planes of Frank’s shoulders and back, nails pressing just on the edge of painful into soft flesh. His voice trembled on a _motherfucker_ as Frank took him into his mouth. He pressed his heels into the mattress and arched into that tight, warm heat. Frank just let him.

“Still mad?” he asked after, wrapped around Billy from behind.

“I’m not answerin’ that,” Billy grumbled. Frank kissed the back of his neck, his fingers skimming down Billy’s side. “It’s gonna take a lot more than a blowjob to get me sweet on you again.”

Frank’s laugh tickled the small hairs on Billy’s neck. “Wait. So, before... That was you bein’ sweet on me?”

Billy turned his head to face Frank and sneered. “Guess you’re about to find out,” he said.

Frank caught his chin and kissed him. Billy rumbled a quiet complaint he didn’t really mean into Frank’s mouth, rolled over onto his back, and let Frank drape himself over him.

“Clingy,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” Frank allowed, nosing at Billy’s stubbled cheek. “I like havin’ you here. In my bed. Safe and sound.”

“This ain’t your bed,” Billy said.

Frank hummed. “You’re right. I’ll have to get a new one for you,” he said, lips brushing against Billy’s jaw. “A king.”

For a while, they lay in silence. Frank indulging in his apparent fascination with Billy’s tattoos, tracing his fingers across swirling blooms of black ink.

“I got these a week after I left New York.” Even though he spoke softly, his voice felt like an intrusion. Billy winced but continued. “In Portland. I found some gal with a portfolio that I liked. It took five hours in the chair, including breaks.” He put his hand over Frank’s and guided it up. “She was willing to keep going too. She asked if I wanted it all over my chest. Up here.” He pressed down over the left side of his breast, into the muscle of his pectoral. Frank splayed his fingers, until his palm rested directly over the beat of his heart.

“You told her no,” Frank said.

“I used to talk about gettin’ a real tattoo. When Lucas and I were…” Billy trailed off. He glanced at Frank’s face, suddenly aware of the rapid thud of his pulse and how obvious it would be to Frank, but Frank didn’t seem to notice. He regarded Billy with the now-familiar soft look on his face.

The sight of that expression used to make Billy crazy. Now it made something in his chest twist.

“He would joke that I should get one right here.” Billy tapped his finger against the back of Frank’s hand. “That I should get his name, the way people do for their sweethearts.”

Something flickered, dark in Frank’s eyes. “What’d you tell him?”

“Tattoos with words are for bikers and white trash.” He smiled and pressed his hand over the inked ‘MOTHER’ under a snarling wolf on Frank’s chest. “Neither of which I cared to be associated with.”

Frank grinned at him, leaned down and kissed him again. Billy sighed into his open mouth, a release of pleasure disguised as exasperation that probably fooled no one.

“You really left Lucas alive for me?” Billy asked once Frank had backed off.

Frank licked his lips, his gaze darting up to meet Billy’s eyes. “Yeah, I did. Once Micro’s finished with him, he’s yours,” he said. Billy nodded, chewing on his lower lip. “Look, Bill… Whatever happened between you two, I want you to know that it doesn’t matter to me.”

Billy didn’t speak. He stared at a leering skull on Frank’s bicep.

“I don’t care what you did in that past life,” Frank went on, pushing his fingers through Billy’s hair. “I only care about what happens next.”

“Do you know what I did to him?” Billy asked without looking at Frank. “Did he tell you?”

Frank was quiet, his fingers stilling, for a moment. “He told me you killed his father,” Frank said.

“Antony Iannucci was a bastard,” Billy said, a snarl curling his lip. “He took me in when I came out of juvie, sure, but it wasn’t charity. I was there to do the work his soft, weak boy wouldn’t do. What I wanted didn’t matter to him. To any of them, really.”

Frank lowered himself slowly over Billy. He pressed a soft kiss onto his throat, at the edge of his stubble.

“I don’t even know if I wanted something else,” Billy said. “I’d been aching to kill someone since the first time someone put their hands on me when I didn’t want it. But I would’ve liked the choice.” He swallowed, the sound clicking in his throat.

Billy kept talking and told Frank everything. The story unspooled like a thread pulled from his throat one inch at a time. Meeting Lucas in juvie. Going home with him for the first time. Starting to work for the family. The feeling of safety holding a gun gave him, the same feeling he got when he was in bed with Lucas. How both were ruined for him by Antony, by the taste of gun oil in his mouth. 

How he decided to bring it all down. Destroy everything Lucas cared about, his family, his position, the money, everything he valued. Everything he chose over Billy.

Frank didn’t interrupt. He stroked Billy’s side, traced his fingers down the dip of his throat, kissed his jaw, his cheek. He didn’t speak even when Billy finally fell silent.

After a while, Billy said: “You should know that I don’t regret what I did to him. I would do it again, if I had to.” He swallowed, Adam’s apple dipping under Frank’s mouth. “That’s the kind of man I am. You should know that.”

Frank surged up and captured Billy’s lips in a hard, almost punishing kiss, bracing his arm above Billy’s head.

“I know,” he growled, breath hot on Billy’s mouth, “exactly what kind of man you are, Billy Russo. How many times do I have to tell you? _I know you_.”

Billy opened his mouth to argue, a spike of fear splintering in his stomach at the thought of being seen so clearly, but Frank only kissed him again, swept his tongue between his lips, hard and not quite painful.

Billy growled in response, his cheeks flushing. He pushed back against Frank, a press of his lips and his teeth. Frank slid his palm up his neck, over his throat. Billy arched into it.

Frank nudged him onto his stomach. He slid a pillow under Billy’s hips, reached for his jeans on the floor, fished out a small tube. Billy panted into the mattress, mouth open, spread his legs as Frank settled between them, worked up before they even got started and too far gone to be embarrassed about it.

Frank tried to be slow and careful, but Billy wouldn’t have it. He urged him on, voice breaking with the need of it. He’d never wanted anything as badly as he wanted to be pounded into the mattress by Frank Castle in that moment. Frank held off, trembling, but a single, sobbed _please_ slipping out of Billy’s mouth snapped his restraint.

Billy felt like he was being devoured, and devouring in kind. Frank’s hand gripped the back of Billy’s neck. He bowed his head against the curve of Billy’s spine, nosing at the knobbed ridge, lips open and wet against his skin.

 _“Mine_ ,” he breathed, snapping his hips, forcing a groan from Billy. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, baby? You want to be kept. Cherished.” Frank nibbled at the juncture of his neck while Billy whined. “You want to be mine, don’t you, beautiful?”

Billy buried his face into the crook of his bent arm, brushing his damp cheeks against his skin. Frank licked up his neck, kissed behind his ear, sucked on the soft skin of his lobe. He thrust hard into Billy, forcing another animal whine from his mouth.

“Yeah,” Frank said, voice so gentle in contrast with his actions. “Of course you do.”

He sat back, pulling out and leaving Billy with an absence that made him grit his teeth. He wrapped his arms around Billy’s chest and pulled him up, gripped his thigh tight enough to bruise and impaled him, inch by inch, onto his cock.

Billy’s breath jumped in his lungs. There was nothing to hold onto but Frank’s hands, so he gripped those, his legs shaking until he was fully seated once more. His back pressed against Frank’s heaving chest as they both fought to catch their breath. Frank curled his hand around Billy’s neck and guided him gently back to rest on his shoulder. He kissed the bolt of his jaw, nudged Billy’s legs wider apart, pressed his free hand onto the mattress behind him and leaned his weight against it, and started to move into Billy.

The angle was perfect and terrible. Billy fell back into Frank’s weight, tried to hold on, keep his rhythm while Frank broke him to pieces, one thrust at a time. Frank’s grip tightened on his throat, not enough to restrict his breathing, but enough to tease at the possibility and that, coupled with Frank’s relentless pace, was enough to undo him completely. He came for the second time that night, sobbing Frank’s name. Frank fucked him through it, panting against his neck, using Billy’s body as he relaxed, boneless and limp, into his grip.

He could live like this, Billy realised. Fuck, he could probably die like this.

“Sweetheart,” he panted, head lolling. “Don’t make me wait all night. C’mon, please.” He ground weakly back into Frank’s lap. “Please. Please, I need you. _Frank, please_.”

Of course Frank was the kind of guy who bit his partner when he came. Billy made a sound between a groan and a laugh.

* * *

“What are you gonna do about Lucas?” Frank asked, later.

Billy twisted a curl of Frank’s hair around his finger. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

Frank put his head on Billy’s chest. He didn’t say anything, but Frank had a way of creating the kind of silence Billy could relax into. A space that didn’t ask for anything from Billy, not even his voice. It meant that when Billy did speak, it came as a choice and not a compulsion to fill the quiet.

“I don’t know how I feel about him,” Billy said. “It’s over between us. I know that. It ended when I was twenty and on my knees. Everything that came after was just play acting.”

“It’s a long time to act,” Frank said, not unkindly. He raised himself up onto his elbows, up to Billy’s face. “Whatever you decide, I’ll stick by you. You got me now, beautiful.” He drew his finger down the straight slope of Billy’s nose. “For better or worse. You’re stuck with me.”

Billy laughed. “Jesus. What, are you reading me your vows? Aren’t you supposed to propose first?”

All the mirth drained away from Frank’s expression, although his eyes still gleamed in the darkness. Billy’s heart kicked.

“Uh, I’m pretty tired,” he said. “Maybe we should—.”

Frank kissed him, soft and slow. Billy relaxed.

“You should get _my_ name tattooed,” Frank said, sounding smug. Billy sighed and rolled over onto his side. “Right across your chest.” Frank fell in behind him, his arm heavy on his waist. “Big gothic font.”

“I’m really gonna stab you, Frank,” Billy said into his pillow. Frank kissed the back of his shoulder.

“Some flames around it too, maybe,” Frank said. He laughed as Billy elbowed him. “What? I’ll get your name on me. ‘S only fair.”

Billy tried to wriggle out of his grip. “I’m gonna get my knife, you stay here.”

“In a curly font,” Frank said, wrapping both arms around Billy and burying his face against his neck while he kicked at him. “Some real pretty flowers around it. And your precious fuckin’ knife.”

Billy rolled over, laughing, and kissed Frank just to shut him up. 

* * *

The next time Billy saw Lucas, it was a week later and Lucas was on his knees. He didn’t find it as satisfying as he would’ve thought he might.

Lucas looked bad. His face was a mess, his nose broken, lips split, his right eye swollen shut. The injuries looked only a few hours old, maybe even less. They’d brought him to Billy in the trunk of a car. That, too, didn’t really make Billy feel good. It didn’t make him feel like much of anything.

They met in one of Micro’s abandoned buildings; an old, five-sided office building that used to house a car dealership on the main floor. Now it mostly held trash, empty boxes, old clothes, stained sleeping bags. The scattered remains of drifters’ comings and goings. And Lucas, on his knees, looking five inches from the end of his rope.

“Your call,” Frank murmured. He had his hand on Billy’s hip. He’d been doing that a lot lately; touching Billy whenever he was close. He’d been bad about it before, but now it was insufferable. One day, Billy was going to tell him to stop. Probably.

Not today. He leaned into Frank, let his head rest against Frank’s shoulder, put his hand over Frank’s and gave it a gentle squeeze. He liked making Frank take his weight, felt gratified by the way he did every time, without fail.

Billy stepped away, crossed the gutted room to stand in front of Lucas. He knelt down until they were eye-to-eye. Lucas swayed on his knees. His one visible eye looked glazed over, the whites stained pink and red. It looked like he was having a hard time focusing on Billy. Billy reached out and pulled the gag from his mouth.

He watched Lucas double over, coughing. He thought of the first time he met Lucas, the pair of them young but not without scars, fresh-faced and poised for the future that sat ahead of them like the open jaws of some great creature. Lucas, who’d talked so easily, so sweetly, who gave Billy things just because Billy had wanted them. He was the first man who touched Billy like he cared if Billy liked it, wanted it.

He felt gratified, and a little frightened, when it still hurt to look at Lucas. But the pain was a distant echo in depths of a black fissure, the delayed and final signs of life from something that’d died off long ago.

He tossed the blood-stained wad of fabric aside, pushed a hard breath through his nose, and pressed his lips tightly together.

“I want him to live,” he said.

Frank didn’t speak, but Billy could see him shift in the corner of his eye.

“You sure?” Alias asked. She leaned over the open door of her car, resting her chin on the top of the frame. “We can put him with his cousin. It’s not a problem to dig that grave a foot deeper.”

“Nah,” Billy said, his gaze locked on Lucas’ broken face. “We’re done here.”

“Billy…” Lucas rasped.

Billy leaned forward, until he was inches from Lucas. Frank tensed, his hand falling to his holster.

“We’re done,” Billy said. “You took your lumps and I took mine. We’re square. You’re gonna remove that price on my head. You’re gonna pay Frank the money you promised him. And you’re gonna do all this from your townhouse in Manhattan, safe and sound with your wife. You come back and try to find me again and I will kill you myself. We clear on that?”

Lucas held his gaze for a single, painful second, about as long as either of them could stand it. And then his head sank. He gave a single nod, his breath bubbling from his broken nose.

Alias glanced at her sister, who shrugged. She looked to Frank, who nodded. She kissed her teeth and straightened with a sigh, like she’d shouldered some great burden on behalf of the world.

Billy went out the back while the three of them put an unresisting Lucas back into the trunk of their stolen car. He fished out a cigarette and stared up at the sky, blue streaked with peach and gold as the sun began to sink. It was still hotter than hell, but the days were getting shorter.

Frank was looking at places in the east part of the city, where Little Portugal butted up against Little Honduras, handwritten signs in Portuguese and Spanish sitting in the corners of close to every window. Frank said he’d bought his first home in a neighbourhood like that, just on the ledge of being hip. The way the city was growing, it would only be a matter of time.

He kept talking to Billy about it. Kept dragging him along to showings, the two of them and Lola, asking him what he thought of the kitchen layout, or the light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, or the size of the backyard. Billy had never in his life had an opinion about any of those things and struggled to come up with one in the moment.

He hadn’t even asked if Billy planned to move in. He just talked as if it were a given, as if the future was set the minute Frank Castle had made his decision to keep Billy.

‘Forever’ was a big word and Frank never said it out loud, but Billy could hear it all the same. He circled the thought like a tired dog, trying to decide if this was the place he wanted to lie down.

He’d stopped fucking other people; Frank had asked him to. He probably would’ve stopped even if Frank hadn’t, which was a little worrisome. Billy didn’t even miss seeing his phone light up night after night. Maybe he never liked it that much in the first place.

Frank took him out now and then. Dinner and drinks. One night he even took him dancing, which Billy suspected he’d done just so he could grind against him in public, a sort of primal ownership display that Billy pretended not to enjoy.

They’d booked a long-term stay in a hotel close to the harbour. Frank offered to pay for the entire thing but Billy took the hit. His account could take it and, anyway, Frank had been footing the bill for a while. It was no hardship. Frank had kissed him after he made his announcement. Took him to bed. That was his preferred way of showing gratitude: with Billy on his back or his stomach or on his hands and knees. Billy didn’t mind one bit.

He was good to Billy, as good as anyone had ever been, and he was promising to be better all the time.

Billy leaned against the wall and listened to the rumble of the engine grow loud and then faint as the car drove away. He watched a flight of birds flick past, singing their goodnight song as they swarmed the telephone poles. Frank emerged just as they settled on the wire.

“You think I made a bad call?” Billy asked as he drew close.

“You made whatever call you needed to make,” Frank said. Billy looked at him cock-eyed. Frank shrugged and smiled. “I told you I’d stand by whatever you decided. I meant it.”

Frank always meant it.

“I couldn’t kill him,” Billy said.

Frank joined him against the wall, close enough to brush shoulders. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he said.

“I did what I did to him because I wanted to hurt him,” Billy said. He sucked another drag from what was left of his cigarette. “Killing him wouldn’t make me feel any better. I don’t think I can feel anything for him anymore, except maybe a little sad. I hate that all those assholes were right about revenge.”

“Well, you don’t have to tell them,” Frank said.

“He wasn’t a bad guy,” Billy said. “Not always. He was good to me when he could be. Better than most.” Frank put his arm around his shoulder. Billy swayed into his space. The birds sang to each other as a breeze stirred the dust across the cracked and vacant lot.

“He put a gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger,” Frank said. Billy huffed a soft laugh and hid his face in the curve where Frank’s neck met his shoulder.

“Yeah. Don’t that just say it all?” he asked. Frank gave his shoulder a squeeze and kissed his temple.

“You hungry?” he asked. Billy grunted. “Let’s get something to eat.”

Frank lead him to the black rental he’d left parked at the far end of the lot, behind a dumpster and out of sight from the quiet road.

“We should get that house on Beverly Street,” Billy said. Frank glanced over.

“Yeah?”

Billy shrugged. “Might as well,” he said casually while his pulse thudded through his body. “The location’s good. Kitchen’s pretty big. Not that it matters to me cause I don’t cook but. I know you do. Backyard’s got room for Lola to run around.”

“I’ll have to build a new fence,” Frank said, taking Billy’s hand in his and pulling him close. “I hate a chain-link. I’ll need to build a patio too. A big one so we can grill.”

Billy smiled and cast his gaze to the golden-streaked heavens. “I can’t believe you still want a grill,” he said. “Your last home burned to the ground.”

“That wasn’t the grill’s fault,” Frank said, the tip of his nose bumping against Billy’s.

“I’ll get us new furniture,” Billy said, wrapping his arms around Frank’s neck. “Including your stupid barbeque.”

Frank smiled, so close that Billy could feel it mirror on his own lips. “King-sized bed?”

“Of course,” Billy said. They kissed.

Billy had grown up believing himself to be smarter than his peers because of the things he didn’t believe in. Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. Surprise trips to Disneyland only happened in sitcoms and travel commercials. Sad orphans only went home with rich new parents in musicals or books. He watched other kids break down with the same smug, breathless feeling he would get when a bus sped past, missing him by inches. A feeling he’d dodged something meant for him.

He’d never believed in anything that could give him hope.

Forever was a heavy word. A word, once planted, with deep roots. Billy had never let it set down in his head, in his heart, before. He always figured he would notice but it’d landed on him like a dandelion clock and now it was there, it was growing, it would keep growing, and it would take work to remove it. To kill it. That would be a terrifying thought…

But he trusted Frank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. The end of the last chapter and I'm still not sure what to say. Thank you to Jun (ssealdog.tumblr.com) again for all his hard work and thank you to Lego (lelelego.tumblr.com) who, along with Jun, helped to create this extremely good and fun and wholesome au. Thank you to everyone who read and left comments and kudos. Special thanks to those who commented on every chapter. I've been garbage at responding to messages but I see you guys and your messages make my whole day.
> 
> I've written something else for this au that'll get posted probably in November. Until then, you can find me on tumblr as always: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


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